


Spliced

by Jouel474, megamegaturtle



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Bittersweet, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, F/M, Forever 29 Draco Malfoy, Happy Family, Inspired by The Time Traveler's Wife, Loving Marriage, Married Couple, Non-Chronological, Not Actually Dead Draco Malfoy, POV Draco Malfoy, POV Second Person, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings, child!Hermione Granger, older!Hermione Granger
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-11
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-16 22:22:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 21,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29461230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jouel474/pseuds/Jouel474, https://archiveofourown.org/users/megamegaturtle/pseuds/megamegaturtle
Summary: "You fall through time, seconds infinitely long. You don’t know how you fall. Your memory’s unsure how to discern reality. Time is saltwater taffy stretched too thin. Time smells like green apples and parchment."You are Draco Malfoy and you are lost through time.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 27
Kudos: 48





	1. sleeping

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mightbewriting](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mightbewriting/gifts).



> 3/11/2021: So, a few months ago, I read mightbewriting's/Amanda's Christmas story that was told in second person and I...remembered how much I loved writing in second person. So, Amanda, this is literally all of your fault. You did created this mess. 
> 
> But, not only did I want to write in second person, I wanted to challenge myself even further: this is a second person story told from a canon's character point of view, I wanted this to be extremely pretty, and I wanted it to be time travel, and now we have Spliced!
> 
> Today is also my birthday so happy 29th birthday to me as well lol. 
> 
> Please enjoy my god-tier challenge fic! 
> 
> ALSO HUGE SHOUTOUT TO JOUEL474 for the lovely fanart. It is 10/10.
> 
> CW: There is major character death in a sense, but not really. No one is actually dead in the entire story. Promise.

__

_You cannot conceive how I ache to be with you: how I would die for one hour - for what is in the world?_

From John Keats to Fanny Brawne, July 25th, 1819

**i.**

You fall through time, seconds infinitely long. You don’t know how you fall. Your memory’s unsure how to discern reality. Time is saltwater taffy stretched too thin. Time smells like green apples and parchment. 

Time tears your skin and muscles apart only to knit them together again. 

You blink and you are whole, your fingers flexing perfectly. Lost somewhere in a place you don’t know, a chill rips through you. Your teeth chatter against your will; your spine wants to curve to protect your heart, but Malfoys do not bend. Instead, with as much dignity as possible, you blow whatever fiery breath you have on your hands. You’re a dragon, after all. 

Snow crunching under your foot as you pivot, you survey your surroundings. It reminds you of the beginning moments in a symphony, right before you learn something important is revealed. All the musicians stop playing, their bodies tense with breath, waiting for their next cue. 

You are in a forest. and it is winter. You are cold.

The trees loom over you, their branches sharp like drawn blades. You feel you are the enemy. One scratches your cheek, a splinter catches in your skin. You want to go home, but where is home in a forest you’ve never been? 

Time answers that question with a growing argument. Three teenagers break the tree line near you, their yells recognizable, but their words too far to make out. 

Ron Weasley shoves Harry Potter with all his might. The twiggy boy roars red until his face matches his hair. Potter curls at the assault but doesn’t cower for long. A girl screams an impressive hex at Weasley, and the forest goes quiet. 

You go quiet too.

Hermione is thinner than you remember, smaller, as if she is only bones now. You find Home younger than you remember too. But that is Hermione: all ire and devotion vested in dirty jeans and a well-worn coat. Her anguish echoes as she yells at Ron Weasley, her voice cracks as she pleads for him to listen.

She begs him to stay, more softly this time, her punctured words delicate snowflakes in the storm of their argument. 

Ron Weasley spits at his friends, venom melting the snow and hope. His anger almost burns the dry brush in the forest. His hatred looms like the trees do when he disappears. Hermione falls to her knees and you almost go to her, your Home, her heart breaking like fracturing ice over a pond. 

Potter goes to her instead as you process what you’ve just seen. You know this place and this story. You know these people, but you weren’t part of the narrative then. Or is it now? The Horcrux Hunt cements itself firmly into existence, but you do not belong here in the Forest of Dean. 

The snow sloshes under your shoe, the pressure enough to change ice into water. Hermione’s name rests on your lips. You take your step forward, wanting nothing more than to make sense of what is happening, but you’ve already made a puddle. 

You fall through time again. 

**ii.**

You blink and you are standing on a beach. It is a warm summer’s day. This is a welcomed change from the freezing cold, but your heart beats hard in your chest as if Death is chasing you. Death might be chasing you. 

Seagulls cry overhead, the crashing ocean waves break on the shoreline. You force yourself to gulp salty air, hold it in your lungs. You buoy in this moment, refuse to drown in the sand from time’s wayward hourglass. You breathe out slowly, steadily, and soak in the sun. 

The beach is mostly empty. A couple walks hand-in-hand in front of you in their own little world. The woman throws her head back in ruckus laughter, uncaring that her smile is wide enough to reveal her molars. She stumbles on wet sand, her arm bracing the man beside her who also trips. They laugh at their messy footprints, laugh at the sand that sticks to their ankles. 

You find reprieve in their affection.

You smile, rolling your eyes as you clearly recall a similar scene happening with you and Hermione. She fell, as she’s prone to do, and you caught her, as you’re prone to do, but both of you ended up with your bums in the mud. You swear you still find grains of sand in the shower. You swear she’s never looked more beautiful than with her hair swirling in all directions. You wish she were here with you now. You wish you knew where you were. 

Dreamy memories have the same texture as living. 

“Excuse me, sir,” a little voice interrupts. “Do you know what this word is?” 

You jump at the intrusion but find a little girl next to you. She has big brown eyes and bushy hair. She’s missing one of her front teeth, creating an enormous gap. Bucky, you’d even say. 

Little hands hold up a book. A tiny index finger taps on the word in question just as her little foot taps unapologetically in the sand. The top of her head barely meets your waist. 

“Well?” she asks in the same scoffing tone you’ve heard a thousand times before. “Do you know what this word is, sir?” 

You know her, even if she never says her name. 

Little Hermione Jean Granger is the only little girl you’d ever imagine bringing a book on a fair summer’s day at the beach, but here she is and she’s none too pleased. You bend over slightly, and you marvel at the bright marker ink on her hands. There will always be ink on your favorite girl. You take the book with ease and kneel in the sand beside her, your finger directly over the word she asked about. 

“Skedaddle,” you say. “It’s an American word. ‘Ske’, like when you try to say the beginning of ‘ski’. ‘Da’, like dad. Then ‘dle’, like the last part of ladle. Skedaddle.” 

She blinks rapidly, and then she leans back with disbelief. She mulls the word around in her mouth before she repeats it. “Skedaddle. That is a funny word.” 

You laugh. “Yes, means to flee. But you’re reading about cowboys and they are a little funny too.” 

She snatches the book back from you. “Cowboys are not funny! That’s what Peter said. Peter said it’s dumb for girls to read about cowboys,” Hermione says, rolling her eyes. “He thinks cowboys are boys who are cows and not heroes, you know.” 

You grin, your heart squeezing in your chest. Even in all the years between, Hermione does not change. Her inflections stay the same in both her scorn and judgement. She is perfect.

In this little girl before you, you miss the woman that you know. You want to go home more than anything now and hold her tight. You never want to be without her. 

Time flows on during this day, the afternoon sun descending over ocean waves. 

“Aren’t you a little young to be at the beach by yourself?” you ask. 

Hermione sighs dramatically, as children do. As if she has carried the world on her shoulders in her brief life. You wish she’d never have to experience the world on her shoulders, but there are things she grows up to do. She is Hermione Granger, the most famous Muggle-born of all. 

“I’m not supposed to talk to strangers either, but you seem like a good stranger.” 

“Oh? How do you know that?” 

Hermione’s mouth twists before she beckons you closer. “Can you keep a secret?” 

“Depends.” 

She clutches her book tight and whispers. “Sometimes when I wish really hard, I can make them come true.” 

You swallow. “What did you wish for, Hermione?” 

She grins, her foot kicking the sand. “I wished for a friend and you seem like you could be my friend.” Her smile falls. “Sometimes my wishes don’t always go right. You’re too old to be my friend.” 

Relief washes through you. “You’re right,” you say. “I’m too old to be your friend, but I know little boy in Wiltshire who’s the same age as you. He’s wishing for a friend like you too.”

Little Hermione lights up at this information. You remember all the nights your wife told you about her lonely childhood. How she wanted nothing more than to have friends and to just fit in. In a perfect world, she’d have her place with you. 

“Do you think I’d meet him? What’s his name? Does he like cowboys? Do you think he’d play with me?” 

You laugh again, your smile wistful. “Yes, Hermione, I think you’ll meet him. Maybe not right now, but maybe one day. He’d love to play with you, though. He might seem rude, but I promise he isn’t.” 

“Peter is a rude boy!” 

“Yes, well, this little boy is no Peter, but he’ll come around. Eventually.” 

She sighs at you, her breath exhaled in an instant. Then, she looks at you with curiosity brimming in her eyes. “You didn’t tell me his name.” 

You hesitate. “If I told you, then maybe your wish won’t come true.” 

“Why?” 

You do not laugh, but only find solace in her unchanging character. “Because you have to make other friends first, and he’s not the sort of friend you need right now. One day though, when you’re older, you’ll be his friend and you’ll mean everything to him.”

Hermione wrinkles her nose. “That sounds like lovey-dovey things.” 

If one day you have a child, you pray you have a daughter and hope she’s as cute as her mother. 

Little Hermione looks at her watch and frowns. Her little lip juts out. “I guess this is goodbye.” 

“Why do you say that?” 

“I can feel it,” she says with utmost certainty. “Mum says when your stomach drops to your shoes that it’s déjà vu. Like the ocean wave.” 

“Hermione, what do you know? What do you mean?”

She tilts to her head to the side and points to the ocean. “That’s what wishes feel like when you make them.” 

Behind you the tide rushes in, the roar angry like a train’s engine. You open your mouth to say something, but wave crashes, stealing you into time once again. 

**iii.**

You blink and you are outside a bedroom door. You don’t recognize this door, but you recognize the photo on the wall. It’s from your wedding day. An immortalized moment of you twirling Hermione on the dance floor. You can almost hear her laughter, the way she begged for you to put her down, but you didn’t. 

The picture looks older than you remember, the magic at the edges fading. You hear someone cough in the room on the other side and you knock. A simple rapping of one, two, three.

The world stills. Another cough. Then a timid question asked by a raspy voice. “Draco?” 

You turn the handle, and fresh air greets you and billows the curtains in the room. You see an old woman, hair so gray it’s almost white. It’s cut short, but she looks at you with wide eyes behind thick glasses. On her bed are several books, thick tomes with cracked bindings. Her lips quiver when she sees you and she reaches her arms out to you.

“It is you,” she says. 

You hear her gasp, and the rasp echoes in empty hallows of her chest. You hear the longing in her voice as she asks you to come closer. She moves her books and pends so you can sit beside her on the bed. You are confused but spellbound. A sense of déjà vu washes over, like your stomach drops to your shoes, like when you saw a teenage girl, like when you met a little girl.  
  
“Hermione?” you ask, your voice thick. “Darling, what’s happened to you?” 

She laughs. It’s hoarse, but when she grabs your hand, you know you’re home. Her fingers are so cold, but what’s left of her magic drinks you in. You relish in the wholeness of her fingers between yours. 

She smiles, tears leaking from her eyes. “Old age, love. Gets most of us.” 

You kiss the back of her wrinkled hand. “You’re still beautiful to me.”

It’s true. Age etches into the lines on Hermione’s face, but it’s still her. Brown eyes carry the same eyelashes as they always have. In this light, her eyes gleam like dark amber. She still has a freckle above her lip that most people don’t notice. Even with her hair shorter, it curls at the ends as it rests on her shoulders. 

“Merlin, I’ve missed you,” she breathes. She wipes at her eye, trying not to sob “Look at you! So young, so handsome. I was a lucky witch to have married you.” 

“Darling, do you know why I’m here?” 

Frail fingers trace the edge of your jaw. She sighs, both in happiness and remorse. “You’re just visiting for now. Not the right time to tell you, but you’ll go to where you need to be soon enough. You always do.” 

You shift to lay next to Hermione on the bed and gather her in your arms. You can feel there’s only so much life left in her. Your chest freezes as you hold her close. Is this a dream? This cannot be her end. You blink back tears. 

She rests her ear over your heart and whispers. “This is my favorite song. I’ve never heard a better one.” 

You inhale deep before you speak, make sure to keep the wobble out of your voice. “Has old age made you daft, my dear? There’s no music.” 

She bunches the fabric of your shirt as if to keep you from leaving. “Your heartbeat is a rhythm. Your breath, the percussion. You are the best symphony.” 

You hold her closer. “I’ve been trying to take you to the symphony. At least, I hope we go. Do we go?” 

Hermione chuckles, her breath a wheezy wind. “Yes, we go. It was beautiful. We had front row seats.” 

“Of course.” 

You both lay there for a long while in the quiet. You are reminded of snowy forests and balmy beaches. The moments of memories you didn’t belong in but were there all the same. You sit in the loneliness with your aged, frail wife, wondering what your wrinkled hand will look like next to hers. It is a good thought, knowing you’ll one day grow old with Hermione.

She breaks the quiet with a confession. “I love you. I don’t think I’ve told you enough.” 

You smooth her gray hair. It’s coarse and wiry under your palm. “Darling, you tell me every day. I love you too. I hope you know that.” 

“With every fiber of my being, Draco,” she says. She then lets out a mighty yawn. “I’m just going to close my eyes for a bit if that’s okay. It was…it was so good to see you today, my love.” 

Like you’ve always done, you snag her reading glasses off her face and put them on the bedside table. You tuck her tight in with a blanket. She snuggles closer to your side, curling into you as if she is part of you.

She is. 

“Good night, Granger,” you whisper to her. You kiss her temple. 

You close your eyes to sleep, feeling time at the edges of your dreams. 

**iv.**

You wake in your bed alone. Rain and wind rattle the windowpanes, begging for you to let them in. You don’t. Hermione’s side is cold, and your glasses are not on your night table. You wonder where you could have left them. You swing your feet over the bed and touch the freezing floor. Your slippers have run off with your glasses, it seems. 

You’re tired, but you absently notice that things are sparse on your side of the bedroom. Where is your wand? Too many questions, too much wondering, but most importantly, where is Hermione? 

You leave your bedroom and forget all your questions. Your hallway is the same as always. The picture of you twirling Hermione rests at your bedroom’s entrance. The color is fully saturated, the magic humming so you almost hear the music. You smile and yawn as you search for your wife. 

She’s easy to find. She’s only a few paces away in her reading nook at the top of the staircase. You bought this house so she could read in the sunlight. She looks beautiful in the sunlight. She looks beautiful now too, hugging a pillow tight to her chest, watching the rain fall down the glass. 

“Come back to bed, Granger.” 

She startles as if she weren’t expecting you. She turns her gaze towards you slowly, as if you’ll disappear if she looks too quick. Enormous eyes gaze at you in the hallway’s night light. She does not breathe for several seconds. 

“Darling? You okay?” 

She wipes at her eye and lets out a watery laugh. “Wow. They said… They said this might happen, but—wow. I can’t believe it’s happening—” 

You lean against the wall. “Granger, that doesn’t make any sense.” 

She shakes her head. Her hair is longer than you remember. “No, you don’t make sense,” she says. With a frustrated groan, she gets up as fast as she can, but she clings to a bookcase for support. “Merlin, is it wrong that I don’t care how you’re here?” 

The shadows stretch long between the two of you. It feels like you haven’t seen Hermione in ages. You cross the shadows as if you’re swimming upstream, against a current of what is supposed to be. Something feels out of place, but you’re not sure what. You place a hand on her shoulder, and she stiffens.

Her magic drinks you in again, but it is much stronger than in your dream. She spins on her heel and throws her arms around you—or well, tries to. 

You laugh. “This bump is big. Was it always so big?” 

You place your hands on her stomach, admire the heat that radiates under your palm. Your baby wakes up and you feel little feet dance. You get down to your knees and lift Hermione’s shirt, press kisses to her swollen belly. Hermione braces one hand on your shoulder, her grip tight as she runs another through your hair. 

You look up at her. “Am I hurting you?” 

She shakes her head. “No, no. I’m just—I’ve missed you.” 

You wrinkle your nose. “Silly girl, I’ve been with you this entire time. You’re the one who let your side of the bed get cold.” 

She leans over and kisses your hair; she holds you close. You can hear your baby move under your ear and you wish you can stay here forever. 

“I feel so tired, Hermione,” you confess. “I’ve been having weird dreams about you.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. I saw you in the forest. The Dean one with your friends. When Weasley left.” 

She sharply inhales. “God, the people I love most always leave me in the end.” 

“Not me, Granger. You’d have to get rid of me. You’re stuck with me for all of time.” 

“Mmm.” 

You stand up and lead her back to your bedroom. “Then, in my next dream, I met you when you were a little girl. You were ridiculously cute. Lost one of your front teeth.” 

She laughs. “Oh, dear.” 

“You needed help with the word ‘skedaddle’, so I sounded it out with you. ‘Ske’ like the first part of ski. ‘Da’, like dad, and—”

“‘Dle’, like the last part of ladle. Skedaddle.” 

“What?” you say with surprise. “Yes, that was exactly it! Did you dream this too?” 

Hermione tugs on your hand and forces you to look at her. “No. I just—well, isn’t that how one would sound out that word, Draco?” 

You shrug. “Regardless, you were adorable. I wanted to take you home. So feisty. I never wanted a daughter more than that moment. I hope we’re having a girl.”

“We are. Ara. Ara Scorpius Malfoy.” 

“Beautiful and deadly. Perfect.”

You’re not sure what strikes you, but you lift your bride in your arms like she is a princess. Her peals of laughter drown out the violent rain. No one told you her happiness would be the best magic. 

“Draco! Put me down!” 

“Now, there’s my gorgeous wife. I’ve missed your smile, darling. No need to frown when I’m here.” 

You lay her on the bed and her hair fans into a stunning halo. She seems so pleased to see you, touches your face as if she’s memorizing what your skin feels like. You kiss her palm before kissing her cheek. 

“In the last dream, you were an old woman. Said age finally caught up with you, but you were still beautiful to me like you are now.” 

“Where were you?” 

“I… I’m not sure. You didn’t say, but you were so delighted to see me. Maybe I went before you. I hope I go before you. I don’t think I could live in a world without you.” 

“Don’t—don’t say that, Draco. It’s hard… so hard to be without you. You don’t understand.” 

“Shh, shh, darling. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere. You told me I was just visiting in my last dream. That I’d go where I need to be. And obviously, that’s with you here, now. Awake and in the present.” 

Hermione cups your face. Her thumb is gentle under your eye. “Kiss me.” 

You grin. You find her lips warm under your mouth. She sighs into your kiss as if she’s welcomed home, her hands sliding up your spine to the base of your neck. You moan into the kiss and tangle your hands in her hair.

She nips your bottom lip, kissing you like it is her only wish. Her tongue traces the seam of your lips before she tastes your mouth. You are helpless against her urgency and melt into her need. She stops kissing you to only drag her teeth along your neck, to suck the spot under your jawline.

She grins against your jugular. You want to tattoo her smile into your skin. “Always so sensitive here,” she teases. 

You redirect her ministrations and slowly undress her. There is simplicity in helping her take off her nightgown. She raises her arms up and you pull the fabric free from her body. Hermione’s hair catches on a button and you tenderly untangle it. Neither of you speak in this vulnerability where only breath serenades the room, a moment that is preening practically. 

Like art, you admire your wife with blooming adoration. Hermione squirms under your gaze, her arms covering her full breasts. You still her with a gentle touch, her heartbeat soothing under your fingertips. You kiss the dip of her sternum; her gasp as striking as a bell. You crawl careful kisses down her body until you pause at your baby. You kiss the swell as if it’s your daughter’s forehead, as if you know that your true love can break all curses. 

Your family is your truest love.

Finally, you trail to the bottom of the bed and kneel before your wife as if she is an altar. Hermione has propped herself on her elbows, her chest heaves, and she smiles at you. The glint in her eye grows heated with desire.

“Well?” 

You smirk and pull off her knickers. She falls back to the bed dramatically, mumbling how she doesn’t care if this is a dream or not. 

With her legs spread wide, you lick her and dive your tongue between her folds. Her thigh spasms the way it does when it’s been a while, but your fingers grip her in place. She moans, her surprise caught in a ragged cry as you find her clit and suck. She tastes warm and you are getting lightheaded from her scent, but you can stay here forever in the way her back curves off the bed and her legs find home on your shoulders. 

You insert two fingers into her and pump them in and out of her. Hermione threads her fingers in your hair and presses you closer to her sex. She rocks against your mouth hard and uses you to pleasure herself. This is when she’s your favorite. Demanding. Uncontrollable. Greedy. 

Her body seizes stiff, her back arching as she cries out your name. She comes on your mouth and you lick gently as she rides out her waves. Hermione lets out a pleased hum as she reaches for you. 

“You are the best dream I think I’ve ever had. I don’t want to wake up tomorrow.” 

You scoff. “Dream? Granger, I’ll show you a dream.” 

You hover over her, kiss her on the lips. She is pliant beneath you, her fingers gracing your jawline. You want to taste all of her, and you hum in delight when her nails trail your scalp.

“Let me be on top,” she whispers.

You roll over to your back and switch positions. You are hard, but your cock twitches when she licks her hand and places it on you. Her touch is firm, but soft. Lazy in how she pumps you. You snake a hand between her legs and touch her again, wanting to make her come one more time. Hermione moans and stops stroking you. She closes her eyes in pleasure as she comes on your hand, her cum coating your fingers. 

Carefully, you help your pregnant wife straddle you, so she is comfortable. Her hair hangs like a curtain and tickles your chest. You guide your tip to trace her wetness. You both shiver from the sensation of being so close, but not quite.

Her belly slightly rests above yours and you want nothing more than to cling to this moment. The rain and wind cease banging on the windows and moonlight slips through the glass. Hermione glows with moonbeams blanketing her. She is your goddess. Your love. The mother of your child. 

Her fingers dig into your shoulders as you line up to enter her. Glancing up, you find warm brown eyes staring down at you. You reach up and touch her waist, relishing from her heat.

Hermione licks her lips. “Be gentle, okay, Draco? I can’t—I don’t think we can go that deep.” 

“That’s fine, love. Whatever makes you comfortable.” 

You enter her slowly. She is molten heat. Your eyes almost roll to the back of your head, but you keep your gaze firmly on your wife. Hermione is in eternal bliss. Her eyes screw shut, her mouth agape, and she pulses around you. 

“Good?” 

She nods. “Please.” 

You grin. You place your hands at her hips exactly how she likes and help guide her slowly up and down your cock. She rolls her hips with practiced ease, her belly rubbing against yours. You bend your knees so she can rest against your thighs. At this new angle, she gasps, her hands bracing themselves on the backs of your legs. You press your thumb to her clit and she squeezes so tight; you stop so you can remain inside her. 

She licks her lips again. “More, but softer.” 

You nod and continue thrusting into her, relaxed and pleased from this position. It is your favorite kind of sex on rainy nights: lazy and sleepy. The build up curls in your lower abdomen as you pick up your pace. Hermione gasps above you and pants with need. Your thumb presses a touch harder and then she’s fluttering around you. 

You groan, deep in the back of your throat, as she orgasms again. 

She swallows thickly and shifts until she places her hands on your shoulder again. She tugs you up until you’re both sitting. 

Swiftly, you curl your legs around her and her breath is hot in your air. “Come for me, Draco.” 

Hermione nips your shoulder before licking the side of your neck and sucking hard. Your hands press firmly to the small of her back and you thrust into her, a little faster, a little deeper. 

Hermione groans into your ear, her arms around her shoulders, clutching you tight. “Please, oh god, please, Draco—” 

You rock into her once more and she flutters around you again. You capture her jaw with a quick hand and firmly kiss her. Her lips are cold to the touch, like always, but blissful. You come in your wife while kissing her, connected to this moment, never wanting to leave. This is the ultimate experience of coming home. 

“I love you,” you say as you break apart. 

Hermione nods, her lips trembling. “I love you too. So, so much.” 

Carefully, you both unwind from each other. Hermione casts a quick spell to clean you both up as you settle for bed. Like clockwork, she rolls onto her side to curl up next to you. She always rests her ear over your heart. 

She traces your bare chest. “This is. This is my favorite sound.” 

“My heart?” 

She nods, her hair causing fiction on your skin. “To know that you’re alive. This is the best sound.”

You feel her shake, but not from the cold. “Darling? What’s wrong? Why are you crying?” 

She shakes her head and laughs. “No, no. It’s fine. I’m fine. Just pregnant. And emotional. I’m just happy. I’m happy I’m your wife, Draco.” She looks up at you, the purest smile on her face. “You are my greatest treasure.” 

You absentmindedly rub her arm. “As you are mine.”

You both lay there in the dark, enjoying each other’s company, when Hermione speaks up. “Do you promise you’ll be here in the morning?” 

You laugh. “Granger, this is my bed. You are my wife. There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.” 

She smiles in the crook of your neck. “Okay, love,” she giggles. “I believe you.” 

You kiss her forehead and allow yourself to fall into a peaceful sleep. 

**v.**

You wake to a graveyard, standing on two feet. It is a fresh day; a friendly breeze plays with your hair. You are not with your wife, but you still taste her. Your mouth is dry from sleep, but you are not sleeping. 

You do not feel rested, but you are not tired either. You don’t remember the last time you ate or showered. You’ve been in a black suit and tie for days. In the forest, on the beach—you have been dropped into scenes you don’t belong to. 

The unease creeps into your bones. 

You are not dreaming. 

You kick a nearby tree, crippling sorrow stormed by rage. You grind your teeth so hard they shift in your mouth. They might as well be sand. That would be more palatable. 

“Fuck…Just—fuck!” you repeat. 

You grab at your hair, tug it hard. None of this makes sense, but nothing has been making sense for hours. Days? What is time to you now? Where are you?

You only witness moments. A wraith floating in your wife’s life. How can you grasp your place in existence when seconds feel like shards of glass? 

Pillow talk stories feel solid under your hands, but nothing in nightly whispers painted such vivid details. A beach you don’t know, a word she can’t say. Memoires tangle the more you try to unwind them. 

Your beginning has no story minus that you have been longing to simply breathe.

You are not where you need to be. 

Your heart both swan dives into despair and ignites into a forest fire. You are lost in the edges of moments: your map unknown and your destination unclear. War drums beat erratically in all your pulse points to the same tune of a dirge.

Clarity is found in the stinging pinch of your wedding band. Your fingers always swell when you ball them into fists too long. Panic threatens to flood your reason, but you have already faced more dangerous oceans. 

You take a deep breath and siphon all your emotions down your spine. You empty your mind with whatever magic you possess to fill a lead box. They rattle and bite each vertebrate as you smother them. You place the box between your ribs and diaphragm, where it is untouchable.

You blink and observe your surroundings. Welcomed familiarity opens its arms wide to you. Mausoleums neatly line rows one-by-one, marbled crypts gleam under a pleasant sunny day. Lovely ivy grows on Greek columns and climbs your ancestors’ graves. Gold leaf signifies everyone’s names.

_Abraxas Malfoy (1938–1990) and Desdemona Malfoy (1938–1985)_

_Lucius Malfoy (1954–2028) and Narcissa Malfoy (1955–)_

_Hermione Malfoy (1979–)_

You find your name too. You swim through syrup when you see the ending year to your life. Your epigraph sings in your ear.

_Draco Malfoy_

_(June 5th, 1980–March 4th, 2010)_

_Beloved husband and cherished friend,_  
_Until time lets us meet again —_  
_Do not worry, rest easy now._  
_Your love will keep me safe and sound._  
_All our moments are mine to keep,_  
_I promise to not always weep._  
_Our love is strong, our love is true,_  
_I count my days till I’m with you._

  
You have already died, your bones on the other side of the marble, resting as you stand. 

Your occlumency creaks under the weight of this information, but you do not stumble. Icy fingers trace the numbers as if your touch can erase them. They remain exactly the same.

You do not hyperventilate. Your breath remains still in your lungs. Disbelief smells like spring’s fresh grass and budding flowers. Sickly sweetness claws into your throat but you do not retch. 

A crack of apparatation. A twig snaps behind you. 

You spin on your heel, your hand at the ready. You find your wand in your pocket now. The grip of hawthorne at home in your palm. This is a dance you remember, war alive in muscle memory, but the hex’s incantation dies on your lips. 

A woman smiles at you, shy and kind. It is a smile that echoes in familiarity. She’s tall and lithe. A sharp chin and pointed nose, but her cheeks round at the apples. Fluffy blonde hair as pale as moonlight flows freely under a sun hat. Silver eyes greet you in recognition you don’t recognize. She carries a bouquet of white daffodils in the crook of her arm. 

“Hello,” she says. “Lovely weather, isn’t it?” 

You do not shift from foot to foot. “This is a private cemetery. Only Malfoys can be here.” 

Her eyes gleam with mischief, her smirk far too comfortable for your liking. “Good thing I’m a Malfoy then. I’m—” 

Another crack of apparation and you know this person intimately. A stern-looking older woman settles her witch’s hat still, her robes flow in the breeze. Graying hair refuses to be tamed by the meager bobby pins she always insists she keeps. 

“Ara,” your lovely, but older wife scolds. “It’s far too soon for you to apparate on your own.” 

Ara rolls her eyes and clicks her tongue. “Honestly, Mum. I’m fine,” she says. She juts her sharp chin towards you. “Look who joined us. Today’s the fabled day,” she teases.

You swallow, your head light. Age looks good on Hermione, but she is not the young wife you had in your arms only a brief time ago. Her face softens at her jaw, her eyes droop at their corners. The shape of her body is more round, more mature than you remember. 

She smiles widely when she sees you. “Oh, Draco. Hello, love!” 

You manage a meek wave as you fall against the wall to your own grave. This is real. Your occlumency shatters in the weight of accepting this new truth as you sag to the ground. It is cold, but at least you can feel it. 

The young woman, Ara, is at your side in an instant. “Goodness, Daddy, you weren’t kidding that you’d be a right pain about this,” she chides. “C’mon, head between your knees. Take deep breaths, Draco. It’s going to be okay. You’re going to be okay.” 

You gulp for air, trembling like a child. “I died. I’m really dead. What in the absolute fuck?” 

Besides you, you hear Hermione swear and it is both a comfort and a terror. Your Hermione has gone all these years without you, and yet you’re here as if not a day has passed. 

“Am I a ghost?” you ask.

Your beloved laughs. “No, dear, you are no ghost.” Her blessed hand rubs circles on your back. You ache with how much you can feel your magic cling to her. “It’s a bit more complicated than that.”

“Am I--?” 

“No, Draco. You’re not dead. Not—” Hermione’s voice hitches. “Not yet… at least. Do you think you can stand?” 

You shake your head. “What’s wrong with me? What happened?”

“Nothing’s wrong, dear. You’re fine. You are completely alive and well.” 

“But why am I here? How did I get here? Are the dreams--? 

Ara giggles. “Dad, please. You’re a smart man. You can obviously put two and two together.” 

Hermione stills and her glare blazes with irritation. “Ara Scorpius, you show your father some respect. He just realized he’s been time traveling.”

“Yes, but Daddy also said that he’d need a swift kick in the pants! Well, hello. That’s me! Swift kick for his pants.” 

Hermione inhales deeply through her nose. “You are so much like your Uncle Theo,” she grumbles. Her eyes find yours and they narrow sharply. “And you. This is your fault, Draco. If we’d let Harry be the godfather, she wouldn’t have been so sassy. Thirty years I’ve been suffering from this child’s sass.”

Despite feeling sick, you roll your eyes, finding comfort in petty bickering. “If the speckled git were my child’s godfather, we’d have the ultimate troublemaker. At least Theo has good manners.”

Hermione chuckles and squeezes your shoulder. “If you’re well enough to complain about Harry, you’re well enough to stand.” 

You solemnly nod and allow the women—your family—to help you to your feet. Hermione links arms with you and you catch sight of her engraved name again. Hermione Malfoy. You pause and trace it like you did to your numbers. 

You rub your thumb over your last name. “I’m positive I married a Granger and, if I recall, you threatened not to marry me at all if you didn’t get to keep it.” 

Hermione sighs and rests her head on your shoulder. Her voice is quiet as she confesses. “When your husband dies young, fights about maintaining independence become inconsequential.” she says. “It is only later we learn that names carry no meaning if we don’t share them with you.” 

Ara loops her arm through your other one and she smiles at you like her mother. “Well, we don’t have to worry about me changing my last name. I’m a Malfoy through and through.” 

“Do you not plan to marry, Ara?” 

Hermione laughs at your side. “Oh, she’s already married and gave us a grandson already, but like her Mum, our daughter didn’t change her last name either. At the wedding. Her husband took the Malfoy name.” 

Emotions swirl through you, disappointment a hollowed wind. “You’re married? Already then, darling? With a child too?”

Your daughter reaches up and pecks your cheek. “Yes, you married Hugo and me a few years ago. We have a son too. Draco R. Malfoy.” 

At the mention of your grandson with your namesake, a blush creeps onto your cheeks. You want to weep with joy no matter how confusing everything is right now. A namesake heir with your name. Another Draco Malfoy in the world. 

Your brows furrow. “What does the ‘R’ stand for? What’s his middle? Is he not a Draco Lucius Malfoy II?” 

Hermione’s grip tightens in your hand. “Don’t panic now, love. I think you take this worse than time traveling.” 

Your attention snaps to her. “Excuse me? Time traveling?” 

“Yes, time traveling. We’ll explain more, don’t worry.” 

Ara clears her throat. “Well, we named Drake after you, Dad. And my husband’s father… Ronald. So, he’s Draco Ronald Malfoy.” 

You roll the name over in your mouth for a few seconds before horror strikes. “Hermione! How could you have let this happen? My daughter married a Weasley?” 

“Nee Weasley,” Ara reminds you. “He’s Hugo Malfoy now. Said there were too many Weasleys.” 

“He’s bloody right about that. And I married you both? Did I get hit in the head with a bludger? A quaffle? A brick?” 

“Draco, hush,” your wife scolds. “You like Hugo. You’ve known him since he was a little boy.” 

You sigh. “Please tell me my grandson doesn’t have red hair. I don’t think—you’re right, darling. This is much worse than time traveling. We have magic so I get that part, but…A Weasley…” 

Ara laughs. “No worries, Dad. He’s blond like a good Malfoy heir. He should wake up from a nap soon.” 

The women take you down the cobblestone path and you all begin walking towards the Manor not too far in the distance. Even if many years have passed, there is a simplicity in how things at the Manor look the same. Grass remains green, and the sky shines a perfect blue. Life continues perfectly without you. 

Ara presents herself with pride, her smile glorious and bright. She was sorted into Slytherin, like her father. She was her team’s seeker, like her father. She adores green apples, like her father. But she was the top of her year at Hogwarts, like her mother. She loves books more than breathing, like her mother. She runs a charity for magical creatures, like her mother, when she’s not focusing on Malfoy Industries. 

Your daughter is an accomplished woman who laughs easily but knows how to exploit every loophole in a contract, your wife explains. Your heart aches that you did not watch her grow up into who she is. You weren’t there to teach her how to fly a broom and to keep monsters away late at night.

Ara bumps into your shoulder. “You taught me how to fly. You show up one day. Like you do now. You always show up out of order.”

Hermione squeezes your bicep. “Out of order, but not broken, love. We make it work.” 

The closer you get to the Manor, the more fear snags you back to your grave. Your feet lay heavy in their every step, time traveling clinging to your legs. An answer so simple can’t be trusted. 

“I don’t understand,” you say. You want to rip out of both Ara’s and Hermione’s touch, but they keep you rooted. “This can’t be—how is any of this real?” 

Slowly, but carefully, your wife and daughter let you go. Hermione gently touches your shoulder. You scold yourself for leaning into the contact. “What would make you believe, Draco? What could we do to help?” 

Anger follows fear, shaking you again. “I don’t know,” you bite out. 

Ara sandwiches Hermione between the two of you and curls into her mother’s side. Hermione kisses her daughter’s temple and holds her close. Your older wife gives you a patient, kind smile. “We’re almost to the Manor.” 

A distance grows between the three of you as the women walk in front of you. Even with your adult daughter, Hermione fusses over Ara and fixes her hat. She tugs on her hair, encouraging Ara to mouth to form into a wobbly smile. Ara looks at you over her shoulder and stands tighter, blinking quickly and trying to grin as if nothing’s wrong, but you know everything is broken. 

Before you know it, you are greeted by the Manor’s looming presence, but it glows instead of leers to you all. The blood wards welcome you with intense longing, ancient magic dancing in your bones the closer you get to your ancestral home. The same magic gleams in Ara and Hermione, the Manor welcoming them home too. It knows that they are exactly where they need to be while you—well, where are you supposed to belong? 

Humid air hangs in your mother’s solarium, but there are more plants than you remember seeing. Light music hums for a lazy dance. Vines grow wildly across a thing of lattice as hanging plants bloom with bright orange and yellow flowers. A fountain that you remember as a child now has lily pads floating merrily along. This garden is like your mother’s heart, but open. 

A baby’s giggle rings clear like a bell and your breath is knocked out of you. Narcissa Malfoy illuminates joy as white hair tumbles down her back. She’s thin now, but beautiful with crow’s feet at the corner of her eyes. She smiles at the baby in her lap and kisses the top of his head. 

The young man next her hears notices you all first. His red hair is neat but is most definitely Weasley. He instantly goes to Ara’s side and kisses his wife on the cheek. He then looks to you and offers a friendly smile, but it falls when you don’t return it. 

Soft, but defeated, you hear Ara tell her husband. “Dad doesn’t know who you are yet.” 

Hermione goes to the baby in your mother’s lap and plucks him up. She cradles him as Narcissa’s eyes find yours and soften. 

“Oh, Draco. Welcome home.” 

Your chest cracks in half at her smile. It is the same as the thousands of times she’s cast it towards you, but the laugh lines are deep in her face. Her blue eyes gleam clear with all the answers you want to know. With worried steps, you go to her and kneel before her, lost like a child. 

Her wrinkled hands stroke your hair in the way they used to when you were a boy crawling into your parent’s bed at night. 

“I know, my darling,” she says. She kisses your head. “I know.” 

Her perfume smells the same and Hermione nudges you to sit in a chair. Ara passes you a handkerchief and wears the same brittle smile you’ve seen Hermione wear. Hermione gives you the baby to hold.

You try to protest, but Hermione cuts you off with her know-it-all attitude. “You like babies. Promise. You aren’t going to drop him.” 

“I know I like babies,” you mumble, but Drake’s weight is unknown in your arms. 

Hugo laughs, warm and kind, and crouches beside you. He adjusts his son so that your hand right under his neck. “Here, Dad, ah, there you. Just like that. Look at you, a total pro.” 

You gaze at him and notice the lingering teasing in his eyes. He looks remarkably like his father, but more intelligent. You feel like you know him, but you don’t. 

“What’s so funny?” 

Hugo shrugs. “You’re actually the one who taught me how to hold a baby,” he tells you. “But in truth, I taught you how to hold a baby. So, it circles around. You teach me, I teach you.” 

You let out a deep breath. “I really do time travel, don’t I?” 

“An awful lot, I’m afraid, or not afraid, I suppose. We’re happy to have you.” 

You look down at the baby in your arms and your heart skips a beat. And it is now that you know what everyone is telling you is true. 

Your grandson smiles at you with a ghost of a smile your soul knows. It’s the same one Hermione has a child, the same you see on Ara’s face. Little gray eyes gaze curiously at you, and he firmly wraps a strong hand around your finger. 

For the gravitas of this moment, your summary is only a brief, but poignant: “Oh.”

Hermione pulls a seat next to yours, her hum as comforting as your favorite pajamas. “Look at you, Drake. Even you can make the great Draco Malfoy speechless.” 

You scoff. “I don’t talk that much.” 

Hermione giggles and shakes her head. “Yes, love. Whatever you say.” 

You sit there for a while next to your wife, rocking your grandson, finding peace in this moment. This makes sense in the way things don’t make sense, but you accept it anyway. If you had to guess, that’s what you’d call living. In the background, someone snaps a photo of you, but you’re not sure who did.

As Drake lets out a wide yawn and settles into sleep, you feel your daughter’s eyes burning you. She’s carefully tucked herself by her husband and your mother, but her nerves can be felt across the room. You laugh to yourself. She is your daughter, both boisterous and nervous, depending on the audience. 

Carefully, you give the baby to your wife and kiss her cheek out of instinct. She gasps at the contact, but it does not unsettle you. 

As you stand, you whisper low enough for only her to hear. “I love you.” 

Hermione gives you a tender smile and nods, a slight blush coloring her cheeks. Even when she’s older, Hermione is easy to fluster. 

Like a newborn, you enter this new world knowing nothing. You have nothing but time to learn. You cross the room with nerves in your every step but pause in front of your daughter. Three pairs of eyes stare up at you, but you only find the ones that look identical to yours. 

You offer your hand. “I assume I taught you to dance too.” 

Dawn breaks across Ara’s face as her sturdy hand is placed in yours. She too feels like home. “Of course, Dad. You got annoyed with the way Monsieur Bain would teach me.” 

You scoff, leading her to the center of the floor to dance. “He taught you too? Merlin, that man is the bane of my existence. One, two, three, four, one, two, three, four,” you mock in a deep faux French accent. “He doesn’t even know French, you know.” 

Ara beams at you. “Yes, Daddy. I know.”

With the light music, you spin your daughter around the room with utter ease. Her graceful steps help her float as you both slide into a simple waltz. 

“You’re definitely my child,” you say to her. “Only Malfoys can dance so well.”

Ara blinks and laughs, uncaring that she stumbles in the dance. “You’re definitely my father then because you say that to me every time we dance.” 

“Do I?” 

Ara nods and wipes a humorous tear from her eye. “I never knew why you said it, but I guess I do now. All these years it’s been some dumb dad joke, and no one knew, but you.” 

You smirk and shrug. “Well, it’s not often someone tells you you’re the father of a woman who’s older than you. Let alone find out on the same day against your own grave,” you say. “Wasn’t it you who claimed I said I ‘needed’ a swift kick in the pants?” 

“Yes, and I’m good at following directions.” 

You narrow your eyes as the dance ends before you grin. “I highly doubt that. No child of mine should be able to follow rules. Let alone your mother’s.”

Ara steps back, but you place a careful hand on her arm. She looks at you with a question in her eyes. You take a deep breath. “I—I don’t know what I wanted to say, but I just wasn’t ready for you to go yet.” 

Ara smiles and sways where she stands. “I think that’s another way to say ‘I love you’, Dad.” 

You look down at your shoes. “Is it?”

“Yes, but I’ll see you soon enough, in some way, and you’ll tell me when you’re ready.” 

You laugh and look at her again. “How did you get so wise?” 

Your daughter smirks and taps your heart. “My Daddy is the best man in the world. He taught me everything he knows, even if it’s out of order. I love him very much.”

You swallow thick. “Sounds like a smart man.” 

“He is.”

She squeezes your arm before surprising you with a quick hug. She grins up at you in pure childish glee and gives you a peck on the cheek. She dashes off as quickly as she came and joins her family. Ara wraps her arms around her husband from behind and looks over his shoulder, watching her son sleep quietly in his arms. 

Across the way, your mother waves at you, her eyes still ever knowing with her age. You wave back, unsure where to go, when exhaustion starts to ebb into your bones. Hermione looks at you and your mother before she says her goodbyes. 

In an instant, Hermione’s by your side, her arm firm across your back. “Let’s get you to bed, love.” 

You nod and follow her as she guides you through your family home. So much has changed throughout the years, but the grandeur remains with wide-open windows and beautiful art paintings on the walls. 

A familiar voice calls out to you. “Oi! Don’t fall asleep on our wife now, stupid git,” your portrait scolds.

You frown as Hermione laughs beside you. “Draco, love, be kind to yourself. He just found he’s been time-traveling.” 

Your portrait self rolls his eyes. “Don’t baby him, darling. He’s a grown man.” 

“Goodbye, my love. I’ll see you soon.” 

As you turn the corner and recognize a door to a very familiar suite, you grumble. “Is he always like that?” 

Hermione grins, the glimmer warm in her eyes. “You love me very much. You can’t help but be protective.”

“Mmmhmm.” 

The bed sings a siren song of comfortable dreams, and you beeline towards it, stripping off your shoes and jacket. You undo your tie and let it fall to your feet. 

“Do you know why I’m always wearing clothes when I wake up? Not once have I ended up naked.” 

Hermione shrugs as spells your clothes to be folded neatly on the side. She undoes the buttons to her outer shirt and puts her shoes away. Somethings truly never change. “No idea. I wasn’t the one who cast the spell.” 

“What spell?” you ask as you crawl into bed. 

You groan as you sink into the pillows, but your wife has answers you desperately want to know. 

The bed dips as Hermione sits and stares at you, her chin propped in her hand. “You’ve explained it to me a few times before. The story is that when you died, which was awful by the way,” she clarifies, “’I’ did not see you until I was much older. Apparently, ‘I’ just wanted to spend one more day with you. But somehow I caused you to time-travel all throughout my life instead. Does that make much sense?”

You close your eyes and chuckle. “Not much, no.”

“Basically, you died in Timeline A and in that timeline, I tried spend more time with you, but something with the magic happened, and now we’re in Timeline B where I never had to make the magic happen.” 

“Can I ask you—or that Hermione?—how you did it?” 

Hermione sighs and pauses for a few seconds before she answers you. “No, love. I—that Hermione doesn’t exist anymore. You’ve only met her once, and you said that it was like time washed her away.”

Your mind flies back to the old woman that you held, her magic weak, and you feel uneasy. You reach across the bed and search for Hermione. “Come lay next to me, darling. It’s been a long day for me.”

You scratch the spot next to you, inviting her to cuddle. Hermione smirks as she slides into bed with you. “Normally that means you’re trying to get me out of my knickers.” 

You freeze, your breathing ceasing as your eyes widen. Hermione laughs again as she settles into your side like she always does. 

“Not tonight, obviously, Draco.” 

You lick your lips. “But we do…? You and me? Even now?” 

Hermione hums, her tone painfully teasing. “Have sex, you mean? Then yes, we do. Quite often, but you’re a little too green for my taste right now, love. I truly enjoy your wisdom as you age.” 

You pull back, utterly offended, and your brows into your hairline. “Too green? Hermione Granger, I know you did not just say that about me.” 

She cups your face. “Malfoy, love. Hermione Malfoy,” she corrects. She pats your face lovingly. “And yes, too green. You’re usually the one undressing me, no matter my age.” 

“Even now? I mean, can you?” 

Your wife traces the slope of your nose. “Yes,” she firmly says. “I’ll teach you later. Or you’ll teach me. We’re always teaching each other, it seems.” 

You kiss her palm and grins at you, happy for some familiarity. “Can I ask you a question then, darling?” 

“Anything.” 

You lick your lips, your heart fast in your chest. You remember the marble mausoleum, your name in gold leaf. “How did I die?” 

Hermione stills in your arm, her dread weighing heavy on your shoulder. Her wedding ring shines in the sunlight that filters through the window. She holds you tighter, afraid you’ll slip through her fingers.

She starts and her voice is the only one in the world. “One day, we wake up, we get dressed, we go to work, and you—you don’t come home. Blaise calls me in a panic. You’ve collapsed. You’re rushed to St. Mungo’s, your magic poisoning your body, but…” her voice trails. “You don’t make it through the night.”

She curls her knuckles over your heart. 

“We knew something was wrong, to a degree. You were sleeping a lot, but something, somewhere woke the lingering dark magic in you… and we found out too late a few weeks after we learned about Ara.” 

“I do remember sleeping. I feel like I’m always sleeping.” 

“We don’t have any proof, but you theorize you time-travel when you’re asleep. You’re working the kinks out on that one.” 

You rest your head atop hers. “How does that even work?” 

Hermione shrugs in your arms. “Beats me. We can’t go back and ask.”

“We couldn’t use a time-turner? Fix everything?” 

Your wife chuckles humorlessly. “The Department of Mysteries already gives us flack about you. You somehow break every time law, but also don’t break any time law. We’re lucky they just let us be. They try containing you once or twice, but it never sticks.” 

“Because I come back to you?” 

She kisses your shoulder. “Yes. No matter where I am, you pop up there or nearby enough. It’s made for some interesting vacations!” 

“Oh good, we still go on vacation. That’s nice,” you say. 

The room nestles you in quiet peace and budding acceptance covers you as your wife continues to speak. 

“One time, I decided to go to Hawaii with Ara when she’s a child. There’s not a large wizarding community, but one that works well enough. Anyway, as Ara and I are enjoying a very educational Polynesian Cultural Center, you also pop up in Hawaii.” 

“I’m not going to like the sound of this, am I?” 

Hermione giggles, but continues. “Luckily, Oahu is a small island, but then my phone rings and I’m so confused, because who in the world would be calling me from a Hawaiian number, but it’s you! And you say, with such perfect, posh annoyance I’ll never forget, you say: ‘Granger, where the fuck are we? And why am I in a lighthouse?’ It was a total mess, and we had to obliviate some locals and fill out all this paperwork,” she finishes, her body shaking with all her laughter. “We have more mishaps over the years like that, but it always turns out well in the end. You always find me.” 

“I hope we go to Paris more so. Or Italy. Or even Spain. Far easier to move around then some islands.” 

Hermione sighs with happiness. “We do. We do a lot together. Even if it doesn’t feel like you will, you’re here and we’re happy.”

“Even out of order?”

“Especially out of order.” 

You hold her closer and finally fall mercy to the sleep that has been begging for you to take notice. “Next time,” you say, your breaths becoming deeper, “I’m going to woo you. Make you the happiest wife like the portrait said.” 

“You can woo me whenever, love. You’ll know how to find me. Now, rest, Draco. You deserve it.” 

You don’t remember if you respond, but time envelopes you once more, taking you away as your dreams start to begin. 


	2. awake

**vi.**

You awake to the roar of Diagon Alley. A man bumps into your shoulder and tells you to watch yourself. His glare lingers fresh even when he walks away, mumbling about rude young blokes. Families bustle in the summer sun throughout the shopping district. Mothers hold letters from Hogwarts for their First-Year children’s school supplies. Endless chatter and laughter ring with pleasant warmth tucked in magical merriment. 

Home echoes in your bones at the shops from your childhood. Delicate cakes and pies glisten in Sugarplum’s Sweet Shop’s window display. In the corner, taffy stretches on a machine painted a bright green color. Down the way, a man promotes Potage’s Cauldron Shop by hawking and banging cauldrons. A woman walks by with bundles of fresh thyme and peppermint from the Apothecary.

Peculiar homesickness creeps into your stomach as you watch couples and children buzz around a place so dear to your heart. You wonder if you will ever take Ara here one day. How often do you see her when she’s a child? Will your daughter clasp your hand as you take her to all your favorite places? Or will she let go to run and play? You wonder if you will ever spend another day here with Hermione. Will you ever enjoy the texture of parchment under your fingertips with your wife again at Scribbulus Writing Instruments? 

Time travel sits heavy on your person, weighing down your body as you wander the alley. It is not something you want to accept, but you cannot escape it. With each step, you go through the stages of grief with cobblestone under your feet. 

Denial jabs into the sole of your shoe. Anger is when you trip on a broken bit and swear. You bargain again with fate as you contemplate whether to go left or right. Depression sinks in again as you walk through a time you don’t know, but acceptance finds you when you see a bushy haired girl reading a book in the window. 

Hermione must be eleven years old and dressed in muggle clothes at Flourish and Blotts. She crisscrosses her legs on a large wingback chair, a thick book splayed on her lap. She hunches over until her nose almost touches the page, her finger tracing the line as a careful guide. Her smile remains the same even years later: a delightful quirk to the left corner of her mouth. 

Without a second thought, you weave your way through the bookstore. You sit in the chair opposite of the little girl, squeaking leather notifying her of your arrival. Hermione sits straight up and her eyes zero in on you with obvious suspicion. Her head tilts to the side and her mouth twists as she thinks. 

“Do I know you, sir? You seem awfully familiar.” 

In the background, you can hear the ocean waves of that fair summer’s day. Years ago, for her, but maybe only days for you. You smile and gesture to her instead. 

“I don’t think so, but I wanted to see what you’re reading. My wife’s a muggleborn too, and I saw you reading all by yourself.” 

She hesitates. “How do you know I’m a muggleborn?” 

You point to her shoes. “Not many witches or wizards wear Nike’s. Or wear dungarees with Mickey Mouse on them. We wear robes or clothes that look like from Victorian England.” 

Hermione surveys the shop and nods. “I guess you’re right. Mum enjoys watching old movies, anyway. They have such elaborate outfits like this too. Almost like in A Christmas Carol.” 

It’s not out yet, but the Muppets one is her favorite retelling of that story.

She holds up a thick text of Hogwarts: A History. Her eyes gleam at the information that she’s not alone. “Is your wife here then? I’d love to meet her. I have so many questions.” 

You shake your head. “Sorry, Little Miss. She had to work today, and I’m just doing some errands. Maybe I can answer some questions for you.”

“Okay, that’s fine then, Mr.….?”

“Black. Mr. Peter Black.” 

Her nose wrinkles at hearing your perceived first name, but she swallows her disdain with an insincere smile. She peers down at the book across her lap and then pulls on one suspender of her dungarees. 

“Is it bad I’m not prepared for school? I’m trying to read all that I can, but I still feel like it won’t be enough. Mum and Dad said I worry too much, but everyone else has been doing magic since they were babies and I… I just found out about it this last year!”

You rest your elbows on your knees and gesture to her textbook. “We don’t really learn magic until Hogwarts, either. Besides, I don’t know many eleven-year-olds who study before the term even starts.”

“…that’s because I’m an overachiever. My teachers say that.”

You smile. “Well, people will always judge you for being an overachiever. And they’re going to be jealous too. That’s just a fact, but…” you trail, “…I don’t think you’re the type of girl to let that bother you. Overachievers are special. They work hard because they like to.” 

Hermione grins. “I just really love learning!” She clutches the textbook to her chest, a motion she will continue to do when grows up. “Do you think I’d fit in Ravenclaw? They seem like they’re smart.”

“Anyone one can be smart, no matter what house you’re sorted in. My wife’s the smartest person I know, and she was in Gryffindor,” you tell her. You lean forward. “I’ll tell you something no one every tells anyone, okay? The houses aren’t based on what you are, but they’re based on what’s important to you. So, that’s what you have to ask yourself. What’s important to you?” 

Hermione flexes her hand and tugs on a loose piece of hair. “I think…I think it’s important to be brave and do the right thing. Like a knight. Mum says if I was ever born in the medieval times, I’d make a rather good knight.”

You hum. “Yes, and knights have to be highly intelligent and always do their best to protect people they love. Knights also have a knack for thinking quick on their feet and discovering alternative ways to do things.” 

“Oh,” Hermione says. She looks up at you and her she bashfully blushes. “I’d be like Alana then. She’s a character in a book I read. She becomes the first lady knight in over a century, and she’s called a Lioness.”

“See, maybe you’re meant to be a little lioness too, but at the end of the day, it’s about what’s right for you. You’ll know when you get to Hogwarts what house you’re meant to be in. You’re a smart and hardworking girl.” 

Hermione mumbles her thanks and looks through the window. Turning around, you see your in-laws swarmed by witches and wizards in their muggle jeans and windbreaker jackets. “You’re the best, Mr. Black. I hope I get to meet your wife one day.” 

“Any time, Little Miss. She’d be delighted to meet you,” you say with a knowing smile. “Now, go on to your parents now. It’s hectic out there.” 

Hermione tucks her textbook under her arm and waves goodbye. You wave back but call after her right before she goes. 

“Little Miss, just remember, if anyone gives you a hard time at school, just call them a vile little cockroach, okay? And maybe give them a good smack or two.” 

Hermione laughs and leaves the shop. She sticks out like a sore thumb as you watch her through the window, but time stretches long as you realize it will take you years to love her. You wish you could love her now but sleep curls at edges of your eyes. 

With a yawn, you settle in your chair and let your gaze follow Hermione. A boy about her age knocks into her and her textbook falls to the ground. They both kneel to the cobblestone street and try to pick it up but bump heads. You can’t hear them, but you remember the laughter from that day. 

You always thought that girl was pretty, you always regretted never getting her name. 

Before you sleep, you watch Little Draco Malfoy stare at Hermione Granger with a dopey look on his face, completely unaware that they are meant to be. 

**vii.**

You awake in a bed. It is soft with the silky sheets against your skin. You yawn as you stretch, your muscles sing as you loosen them. You rub the sleep from your eyes and recognize your old flat. You stumble out of bed and head to the kitchen. A house-elf pops next to the island, a frying pan held high as a weapon. She lowers it when she sees you.

“Master Malfoy, sir? Tillie thought you’d be in France. You’re not supposed to be home yet.” 

Your house-elf peers at you as she steps closer, her gigantic eyes deep in thought. She holds up a finger and swipes the air before she licks it. If possible, her eyes widen larger and her frying pan thuds to the ground. 

“You taste like Time, sir,” she squeaks. “You’re not Tillie’s Master Malfoy, are you?” 

You smile and shrug your shoulders. “I am not your employer as of now, no, Tillie, but I’m still Draco. Just a little older.” 

Tillie wrings her hands together. “You’re very sick, Master Malfoy. Tillie smells it on you too. Dark magic bubblin’ in your blood.” 

You sit at the counter. “I know, Tillie, but there’s nothing we can do. You know that, don’t you? That even when I get sick, I can’t do anything.” 

She curls in on herself. “Elves don’t believe in promisin’ false hope. We don’t save what we can’t fix.” 

“That’s fine, Tillie. Can you fix me a plate of something to eat? I don’t remember when I last ate. Find me a list of today’s happenings. What events are going on tonight?” 

Tillie snaps her fingers, and an invitation appears in front of you. It is for a fundraising gala hosted by the Ministry. Looking at the date, you remember you couldn’t attend this year because you were in France dealing with a troublesome foreign investor. However, your finger thumbs the numbers with the year. 

This is the year that you and Hermione date. She sends you an owl out of the blue one day asking to get lunch. You let it sit on your desk for three days, unsure on how to respond before she sends another owl, her letter more direct, quoting had she’d known she’d get the cold shoulder after a lovely evening of conversation; she wouldn’t have sent the first owl. 

Realization strikes and you let out a laugh of disbelief. Hermione always said you swept her off feet at Ministry fundraising event, but you only remember your first date being that rather aggressive lunch. She quizzed you on conversations you didn’t remember, but found you still interesting enough despite your lack of knowledge. 

A part of you wants to know how long you’ve been time-traveling, if you’ve always been meant to time-travel. How much has fate been changed because you’ve meddled in it? What will be the wrong step that ruins everything? 

The larger part of you lets out a deep, unattractive cackle. You know this event is the one Hermione falls for you and you are devilishly delighted. You’ve heard only stories about this first meeting, that she met you and you charmed her with charismatic, breathtaking suave. 

For years she teased you for not remembering this sizzling, clandestine meeting. Apparently, the two of you tuck yourselves away on a balcony and the world shrinks only to you and her. On days she found you clumsy or a bumbling fool, she lamented about the handsome rogue who seduced her with poetry and dancing.

Tillie feeds you a full English breakfast at your request. While not a breakfast seen often in Malfoy Manor, you have spent many mornings in the toasty, cozy Burrow with your wife. Sipping your tea, you lean back in your chair and think about your daughter. A Weasley for a husband, but Hugo helped carry your family’s tradition. You can still feel Drake’s tight grip around your finger. He was so small, but so warm. His fine hair is more like his father’s than your daughter’s, but he has your coloring. 

Will you ever hold Ara when she’s a baby? Will you feel a better homecoming? Was it better thinking you were only dreaming than realizing that you’ve been awake the entire time?

Ara said you show up out of order, but what you wouldn’t give to just see her grow up as you grow old with Hermione…who do you have to bribe to make sure you don’t die? 

Mourning unease needles into your chest, but it does you no good. This is your reality, an out-of-order life with a family who adores you. You think of Hermione’s smile throughout the years and you remind yourself you get to see her constantly. 

Your wife admitted this is not perfect, but she cherishes each moment with you. She refuses to take another moment for granted if she’s always afraid that it will be the last. She spends her years living life, waiting for you to come to her, but she never demands more. Every moment with you is a treasured morsel, even when she’s starving. 

You steel yourself and find your resolve in your family. You are lost, but you are not in time. Eating the last of your filling breakfast, you snag the invitation off the counter and head to the Floo. You grab the powder and call out your family’s home.

Green flames roar to life as you step through the fireplace. You walk into the sitting room, your father and mother greeting you with surprised eyes. You’re left breathless when you see them, your mother the epitome of health and your father alive. 

Your mother stands to greet you. “Are you feeling well, dear? You look peaky.” 

You smile and shrug, flashing your invitation. “I’m only here for a bit. Wanted some help to get dressed for the gala this evening.” 

Your father puts down the book he’s reading. “Aren’t you supposed to be in France?”

You meet his gaze and force your heartbeat to slow. “We’re taking a day, so I thought I’d come home for tonight. It’s a fundraiser, anyway. It’s good to look good for the Ministry, Father.” 

Lucius eyes you, but then goes back to his tea. “Right then, son. Your mother missed you. Before you go, come see me and I’ll lend you some nice cufflinks and a watch.” 

“I have my own cufflinks, Father? And a watch?” 

Skeptical gray eyes meet yours and your father chuckles. Prison has changed him this time, life slowly coming back to him these years later. He cherishes the little things more as he rolls his eyes at you. 

“I see right through you, Draco. There’s a girl you want to impress,” he says. Looking at your mother, he smiles softly. “I know a thing or two about impressing remarkable women.” 

At your side, your mother blushes. She ducks her chin and gaze at your father with adoration. “Oh, Lucius, stop.” 

Their love weaves around the room and you let this moment soak into your being. You don’t know how many more times you’ll be able to see them like this. You don’t know how you’ll crush their hearts when you pass away. You don’t know if you’re there for your mother when your father passes away either. 

You give them a second more and clear your throat. “Mother,” you say. “The dress robes?”   
She blinks and comes back to herself, her fingers going to her lips as she smiles. She squeezes your bicep. “Of course, my darling. I have the most perfect ones in mind. You’re going to be so handsome.” 

“I’m already handsome, Mother,” you jest.

Together you both make your way upstairs to the family’s dressing room. Years upon years of Malfoy clothing hang on racks. Timeless pieces stitched for any occasion wait with endless patience for someone to choose them. Ball gowns, muggle suits, formal dress robes, and cocktail dresses line the large closet. In the back, a wall of shoes—both feminine and masculine—gleam on display. Down the center of the room is the jewelry case with stunning pieces for any member to wear. Earrings, rings, watches, broaches, tie-clips, cuff links, and necklaces. 

When you were younger, before the war, you spent hours with both Malfoy men and women getting dressed for a night out on the town. Your grandmother Desdemona would smile brightly at your mother as she held up a necklace for her to wear. Your grandfather Abraxas only smiled in this dressing room; his relationship barely warm with your father as they tried on dress robes together. Laughter and joy echoed in this room with glasses of wine and sparkling cider when aunts and second cousins used to visit too. 

This dressing room sits lonely now with the current Malfoy relatives in France not wanting to visit. Darkness no longer lives in the Manor, but it’s still haunted by ghosts. 

You drag your fingers across decades of refinery and pause. You breathe in the splendid memories of your wife and touch a lovely red gown. Hermione will wear this on your first Christmas together, dripping in rubies you bribe her to wear. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever told you this, Mother,” you say. “But thank you for protecting this room during the war.” 

Your mother stops rifling through dress robes, but then continues. “Some things are sacred, Draco. This is a family room.” 

Neither of you continue the conversation as you inspect formal dress shoes to wear. Nothing is catching your eye when your mother calls out to you. You turn around and find her brimming with excitement. 

“Come here, darling. This one deserves a night out, I think. Vintage is always in.” 

With all the pride of a perfect pureblood wife and an eye for fashion, Narcissa Malfoy holds up a set of handsome dark blue dress robes and trousers. The fabric sheens silver as it moves across the light before dipping into inky darkness. The waistcoat glimmers as serene moonlight with onyx buttons down the front. She holds the dress robes against you and grins. 

“Yes, you need to wear this. You will be a shooting star, my love. This lucky girl is going to wish to be yours.” 

You smirk at the comment. “That’s the plan, Mother. I really like her.” 

There’s a knock on the door as your father announces himself. “Any chance you’ll tell us who?” 

You laugh. “Not a chance. Just know that she’ll make me happy.” 

Lucius inhales through his nose and closes his eyes. “I’ve feared this day would come,” he says. “I have an odd sense she’s not pureblood.”

“No, she is not.” 

“Half-blood?”

“No.”

Your father groans but says nothing. He goes to the display case and picks out a pair of sapphire cufflinks and a silver watch. You’ve never been allowed to wear these, but you’ve always admired this set. Your great-grandfather commissioned them long before you were born.

Lucius gives you a strained smile. “Wear these as a blessing, then. And give me time, son. Years of tradition will change before I know it.” 

You nod and clasp him on the arm. Displays of affection between the two of you are still budding after the war, but they’re both trying. Your mother rests her head on his shoulder and smiles at you. Time for them moves on too, not allowing to be stuck anymore as the future calls for change. 

After bidding your parents goodbye with a showy kiss on the cheek for your mother and a surprise hug for your father, you go back home. Afternoon sun is dipping close to evening and you decide to fly for the first time in what feels like forever. 

As bright blue melts into pink, you get lost in dreamy thoughts. Time does not stop for anyone as the sun crawls across the sky, tired and weary from a busy day. Stars peek like naughty children too soon as velvet blue inches closer to the horizon. You fly through the clouds, cold air on your face the only reminder than you are still awake. Life thrums in your fingers as you grip your broomstick. You’re hidden where no can see you, but that doesn’t mean you don’t exist. 

Time does not erase your story when love is stronger than all else. 

As the moon swells across dark blue, unease from time-travel beings to fly away from your soul. This is your life now, stolen seconds, but every moment filled with love. 

You think of Hermione and Ara. Of your parents and your grandson. Who said stories and lives needed to be told in order when you’re proof that life is life no matter the context? With renewed strength, you go head back to your flat.

Tillie greets you and gives you a drink. “Drink this, sir. You need to keep your strength up.” 

It smells like magic with citrus notes, clearly elven made. You take a sip and your lips pucker at the sour and sweetness. Tillie scuffs her foot as she does not meet her gaze. 

“Just because Tillie can’t fix you don’t mean Tillie can’t help you.” 

Fondness blooms in your chest as you down the rest of your drink. You give her modest praise and Tillie beams like the sun. You chuckle to yourself and get ready for the night, the shower calling for you with a sweet siren song. 

Near scalding water rolls over your skin as you scrub days away. It’s not that you’re dirty, but you wash years away from your body. Shampoo lathers your hair clean and conditioner softens it. Nothing clutters your shower, you realize. Bottles of conditioner and Hermione’s body washes are absent. Only your sparse (yet effective) toiletries stand at attention in your company.   
The rest of the evening ticks by lazily as you lounge around in your towel, letting your hair air dry. Small waves ripple in your hair before you use some product to slick it back. You stand proudly in front of the mirror, admiring your chest and shoulders. You don’t remember the last time you truly saw yourself. It’s been far too long. 

You touch your jaw as you shave away the minor stubble. Dark circles kiss underneath your eyes, but overall, you seem healthy. You see nothing wrong with you, but one day, you collapse and die. Dormant dark magic wakes in one fell swoop and kills you. Tillie said it’s already infecting you, slowly killing you, and no one knows. 

It is hard to be an alive dead man you learn. All your seconds simultaneously stretch long and compress in a single moment. You float through time with no control of your destination. It both angers you and humbles you, being the mercy at something larger than yourself. 

Life clings fiercely to you, begging for all your remaining moments, that any crumb can satisfy a craving. This morning you thought the same thing and tension bleeds out of you. You vowed till death with her, but you are not dead yet. 

You finish getting ready as the gala begins. Smooth material slides against your skin when you pull up your trousers. Underneath a simple white oxford, you fasten the onyx buttons on the silver waistcoat. Finally, you slip into the dark blue dress robes, taking pleasure in how the midnight blue contrasts against your skin. With the last touches of the sapphire cufflinks and silver watch, you are as ready as you’ll ever be. 

Tillie’s crooked fingers twist into the fabric of her dress. She smiles at you with enormous pride. 

“Master Malfoy is mighty handsome,” she boasts. 

Her joy makes you smile as you make your way back to the fireplace. You slowly go towards the Floo powder. “Tillie,” you say. “You can’t tell anyone what you know, do you understand? Not even me.”

Behind you, Tillie sighs. “Tillie knows, sir. Your secret will be safe.” 

You glance over your shoulder and flash her an appreciative grin. “You’re the best. Thank you.” 

Taking the floo powder, you do not linger any longer here. You call out the gala’s destination, knowing that the party is already in full swing. Green flames lick you as you travel through them, but in an instant, beautiful chandeliers greet you in the traveling room. 

People in fancy gowns and sharp robes chatter amongst themselves. Servers with champagne flutes weave throughout the crowd as the live band plays. It is not a symphony, but the tune is pleasing to the ear. 

You do not see Hermione, and by the grace of any deity, no one stops you to chat. You wander the ballroom looking for your future wife at the edges of the crowd, but you still do not find her. Rethinking your strategy, you push through large doors to the balcony gardens, hoping fresh air will give you a better perspective. 

You discover Hermione. Inspecting a honeysuckle vine, your wife wears sparkling purple dress robes. The cape carries the Milky Way galaxy, each star shines like the ones in the night sky. Her hair weaves into a crown around her head, with a few loose pieces framing her face. She is beyond stunning.

With a hammering heart and weak knees, you walk to her, wanting nothing more than to capture her lips in a kiss. But she does not know you, not as you are now. You remember the little girls on the beach and the bookstore who both desperately just wanted a friend. 

Your footsteps alert her of your presence, and you slow your gait to a comfortable pace. You tuck your hands into your pockets. Curious eyes find yours, and there is comfort in knowing that she will always be curious about you. 

“Evening, Granger,” you say. “You look lovely.”

Inwardly, you swear at yourself. You are supposed to be reserved, not forward. 

Hermione points a finger at herself, also baffled by such a cordial greeting. “Me?” 

“Well, I don’t see anyone else here named ‘Granger’, so it would have to be you.” 

She blinks in disbelief, but slowly accepts your compliment with a welcoming smile. She fiddles with a gemstone that dangles off a long chain. “Thank you, Malfoy. You look nice as well.” 

Almost toe to toe with her, you catch notes of jasmine perfume. She stares at you, her head tilting to the side. You know this look when she dissects a riddle. It is a favorite. You relax and tension bleeds away in a dance you know well. 

“Not that I don’t mind the company, Malfoy,” she says, her brows furrowing together, “but am I to assume you’re out here for pleasant conversation?” 

You laugh. “Don’t think too hard there, Granger. I wanted some fresh air, and I found you. Can’t a bloke greet an old classmate?” 

She pauses for a moment, but she wears an amused smile. “Fine, whatever you say, Malfoy.” 

She walks to the railing, but when she doesn’t hear you follow, she gestures for you to hurry. She is famous for this look. Back at Hogwarts with her friends, you used to tease her for being so bossy. As her husband, you know better than to question.

Below you, the grounds sleep in splendor. A few partygoers walk a cobblestone path and their laughter rings through the air. Fireflies glow on tops of hedges before diving into tall grasses on the hill. The moon gazes at all in the garden, her magic blanketing the world in wistful dreams. 

Inches stretch into miles between you and Hermione. You ache to put your arm around her and hold her close, but you do not know this woman. She is not yet your wife. She is a tangible dream that hazes at her edges. 

Nerves rattle under your skin. You grasp for conversation. 

“What’s your favorite book, Granger?” 

She snorts besides you. “Malfoy, is that your attempt at small talk? Asking me about my favorite book?”

“I suppose I could ask you about your favorite quidditch team, but I was trying for an actual conversation.” 

Hermione hums as she grips the railing. She leans back and stares at the moon. “Have you heard of The Count of Monte Cristo?” 

You groan at the obviousness of all it, chastising yourself for forgetting so integral to your marriage. “Unfortunately.” 

“Unfortunately?” she admonishes. “That book is a classic! Treasure hunting, love, betrayal. Revenge!” She jabs a finger at your bicep and her beautiful mouth scowls. “How can you not love it? It is adventure!” 

You quirk an eyebrow as you hold back a smile. You forgot how she burns with passion for anything, especially that blasted book. “Haven’t you had enough adventure for a lifetime?” 

She inhales, ready to defend herself, but then stops. With a small grin, she tugs on her necklace again. “Perhaps,” she admits, turning her attention back to the moon. “But no. Not really. Adventure is out there, just with a different name.” 

“Ah, very poetic, Granger.” 

“And what do you know of poetry?” 

You shrug. “I know enough to recite one from memory.” 

Beside you, Hermione laughs. “What? You?” she teases. When you don’t budge, her expression morphs into pure smugness. “Prove it then. I’d love to hear you recite poetry.” 

You flash her a smirk and remember one you spent hours memorizing to impress the witch before you. You lick your lips and begin:

_Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art—_  
_Not in lone splendor hung aloft the night_  
_And watching, with eternal lids apart,_  
_Like nature’s patient, sleepless Eremite,_  
_The moving waters at their priestlike task_  
_Of pure ablution round earth’s human shores,_  
_Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask_  
_Of snow upon the mountains and the moors—_  
_No—yet still steadfast, still unchangeable,_  
_Pillow’d upon my fair love’s ripening breast,_  
_To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,_  
_Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,_  
_Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,_  
_And so live ever—or else swoon to death._

You end the poem with a whisper, your heart louder than your voice. Hermione blinks at you with parted lips, stunned to silence. The world is only the two of you here on the balcony.

She touches her face and a small smile curves on her mouth. “Wow. Keats?”

You both know you recited a love poem, but you do not acknowledge that as a fierce blush warms your face. You clear your throat. “He was the best.” 

“He died young at twenty-six years old and he wrote poetry for only five, you know.”

Emotion claws up your spine, tries to crack through the serenity of this moment. You do not break under her honest observation. “I know. He died thinking no one would ever want to read, let alone recite, his poetry.” 

“But to think, only five years. I wonder what I could accomplish in five years.” 

“You? Granger, you can take over the world in five years. Let me know when I should bow down to you as our Sovereign Queen.” 

She smirks at you and rolls her eyes. “Flattery will not protect you. I won’t fall for idle praise.” 

“True, but I’m sure they can sway you with rather extensive libraries.” 

“Are you flirting with me, Malfoy?” 

“Mmm. Flirting is a thing that some do, but a gentleman never tells.” 

“And what of you, Malfoy? What would you do in five years?” 

“I wouldn’t do anything special,” you admit. “I’d just—live, I suppose, and hope for the best.” 

“Where’s your ambition?” Hermione says. She leans in towards you, her eyes glittering with mischief. “Don’t you want to see the world?” 

Her question echoes in your ear. You’ve both recently discussed spending time in Brazil before the baby is born. You let out a small sigh. “I guess, unlike Keats, maybe I’d try to be happy. A lifetime of memories in five years is another word for living, I think.” 

“Be careful, Malfoy,” she teases. “Talk like that and you’ll be a good one. They always die young.” 

You stand closer to her. “And what does it mean to be good to you, Granger?” 

She doesn’t answer for a moment, tapping her fingers as she thinks. “Good is—good just means you’re missed, I think. You’re gone too soon before people could love you enough.” 

Your heart skips a beat. “Oh?”

“Yes. Because they’re good because we don’t tell them we love them enough. They wake up one morning and die thinking it wouldn’t be their last…” 

“If I were to die young—” you say, your voice low. “I hope the woman that I love knows I would only want one more day with her. Just one more moment to hold her hand. One more kiss before I go.” 

You find brown eyes in the moonlight, and she sways on her feet. You stand taller and step in closer. “It’s important for her to know just how much I’d miss her. I’d never want to be a day without her.” 

Hermione swallows. “I didn’t—I didn’t realize you were seeing someone, Malfoy.” 

You chuckle. “I’m not, but even I want to love someone. Is that too much?” 

She shakes her head. “No, no. It’s not,” she says. “I shouldn’t be surprised. You recited a John Keats’ sonnet to me.” 

“What about you, Granger? What’s your dream man like?” 

She laughs. “Well, he is certainly not stalking me at this party,” she says. “Harry’s trying to set me up with one of his aurors, but while handsome, the man has no taste for music.” 

“Music?” 

“Yes, I love live music, just as much as I love reading.” 

You laugh. “Well, there’s nothing wrong with that. You deserve a man who would want to take you to the symphony.” 

“Confession. I’ve never been to a symphony.” 

“Me neither.” 

“And you? What’s your dream woman like?” 

You hold out your hand. “A woman who’d like to go to a symphony with me.” 

Hermione stares at you before a delightful giggle escapes her. Her hand touches yours and your magic curls around her fingers. She gasps at the contact as your palm lines match and your fingers slide between hers. You hold her on her waist as she finds purchase on your shoulder. Faintly, you can hear the band play, but there is no need for music for both of you to dance. 

Quietly, under the witness of the moon, you waltz on the balcony. The flowers follow both your steps. They twist as you twirl her in a simple dance, unfurl their sleeping blooms as you bring her chest to chest. Wonder sparkles in her eyes and you smile as the air moves light under your feet. 

You lean close to her ear, whispering. “If I only have five years, I hope every moment is like this one.” 

Your wife shivers in your arms as you slow down and pull apart. You tuck a loose piece of hair behind her air and press a kiss to the corner of her mouth. No matter that you want more, but this is not the time for you right now. 

You grab her hand instead and run your thumb over her knuckles. The world rests heavy on your shoulders as fatigue seeps into your bones. You give her a tired smile. 

“This was fun, Granger,” you say. 

“You’re leaving?” 

You almost kiss her hand but refrain yourself. “Yes. I have to get back to France. I have an international portkey to catch.” 

She squeezes your fingers. “Well, thank you, Malfoy. It’s been…you’ve been lovely company.” 

You squeeze back, smirking. “So, I’ve been told.” 

She huffs and snatches back her hand, but her smile breaks through her scowl. “Don’t ruin this. You’re actually not that bad.” 

You smile wider. “I’ve been told that one too.” 

“Goodbye…Malfoy,” she says. “I hope you have a safe trip.” 

You shrug. “Who knows? Though, it would be nice to have a letter to answer when I come back.” 

She wears a small grin. “I’ll think about it.”

You physically force yourself to move away. Walking backwards, you smile. “Please do.” 

In the background, her laugh rings like music. You leave your wife with a bounce in your step. Time tugs on you as you go through the door and everything slips away from you again. 

**viii.**

There’s a voice you know, the way it calls your name, and welcomes you home. It says your name with softness on their tongue, the syllables a lovely melody. You know the hitch of their breath when they hiccup their cry. 

Time clings to your robes as you exit a green portal and find your wife staring up at you with teary, shocked eyes. She stands in a witch’s circle, spell work fading in the dying light, her hair floating in the air. Energy hums low in your ears, the tune like a beating heart.

Her hands tremble as she gazes at you, her jaw hanging in stunned silence. Magic crackles in the room, the wards keeping the unknown magnitude contained. You feel whole again, materializing as one person. The shadows on the walls fickler with sharp claws, slicing through the light cast from the fireplace. 

You walk down a short flight of metal stairs, your slow steps reverberating like dark piano cords. The door thuds shut behind you, your only audience breathless.

Hermione does not take her eyes off you. She swallows your every movement with a palatable ache etched into the frown lines on her face. The hair at her temples grey, but her famous brown hair mostly remains. 

You stop before her with trepidation between the both of you. With shaking fingers, she braves herself and cups your face. Her cold fingers flare at the contact and she steals them back as if she’s been burned. You snatch her hand lightening quick and kiss her fingertips. 

“Hello, darling,” you mummer. You adore at the callouses on her palms. “I’ve missed you.” 

“…are you dead?” 

You smile soft and sigh, intertwining your fingers with her. “No, Granger, not dead yet, but one day I’ll be.”

Her magic drinks you in, each gulp barely quenching her thirst. The seconds slide into stillness, stretching long into heartbeats and breaths. Her lip quivers as she gasps for reassurance and throws her arms around you. 

She sobs into the crook of your neck; her words warm against your skin. “You’re here. You’re actually here.” 

Hermione melds her body to yours with a bone crushing hug. She grips you so tight there is no escape. You belong only to her in this moment. You hold her just as fiercely. 

Longing stabs you as you bury your fingers into her hair and kiss her temple. “I am—so sorry, my darling,” you whisper. “I am so, so sorry.” 

Hermione shrieks in your ear, her mourning wail piercing your bones. Your death drowns you both and together you crumple to the floor. Your wife’s empty life echoes from the years between and you are left rotting in desolate loneliness. 

“Just one day,” Hermione sobs again against your skin. “I just wanted one more day…” 

“All my days, darling. All of my days,” you say with haggard breath. Your chest cracks in half as anguish bleeds from your heart. 

She pulls back, her face blotchy and twisted in pain. “So many days and I—” her voice catches. “So many memories now I _know_ don’t belong to me, but they’re mine--! And you have always been mine, always been with me…but I _also_ know I’m not the woman who’s lived this life.” 

You choke as you shakily wipe her tears away. “Your one more day became a new lifetime, Hermione. So much to live.” 

“But never right, is it?” she cries. “It’s still broken. We’re fractured across time and I can’t keep you.” 

You cup her face with both hands and anchor yourself to this moment. This woman is your beginning, her love the origin that keeps you breathing. “No, no, my darling. We’re not broken. We are merely a puzzle of moments and memories. If our love wasn’t complicated, who would we be really?” 

Finally, she pauses, a small giggle escaping her. Her smile shimmers like beautiful sea pearls. “Draco Malfoy, don’t you dare make me laugh right now.” 

“We’re already crying, Hermione, so all we can do now is laugh.” 

Hermione hiccups a watery laugh, eyes still wet with fresh tears. She takes your palm and kisses your love line. “I never thought I’d see you again. Sixteen years is a long, long time.” 

“I vowed to be yours,” you say, your golden wedding band glinting in the light. “I will always come home to you.” 

Hermione scrubs her tears away and sniffles before she tugs you back into her embrace. “You are a dream. Never in all of my years of hoping could I imagine that you would feel so right in my arms.” 

You lay down onto the icy floor as your cushion and Hermione follows. She tucks herself into your side and rests her ear over her heart. She says it’s her favorite sound. She heaves a quiet cry as she traces your chest. 

You close your eyes and relish in holding your wife. She is a solid presence as you inhale and exhale again. You stroke her spine as she settles into calm breathing.

“Draco,” Hermione says. “I wish I could have lived the life I remember now with you.” 

You pause, her spoken wish stinging you. “I wish I could have grown old with you.” 

“I wish that too. Every, single day.”

You open your eyes and roll onto your side, using your arm as a pillow as you stare at your wife. She does the same and grasps your hand. “I’m not,” she starts, taking a deep breath. “I’m not going to remember this, am I? All this work and I won’t be the one with you in the end.” 

You swallow, your voice tight. “You’re always with me, Hermione. No matter what, you’re still you, you’re just—” you say, gathering her in your arms. “You won’t have to remember so many years of pain. You know that, don’t you? I’ll come find you soon after I die, and I’ll be there as much as I can.” 

“You’ll be there for Ara’s birth,” she says, burying her face in your chest. She takes a deep breath. “Ara…our daughter, we actually get to raise a daughter together.” 

“Yes, whatever you’ve done today, whatever magic this is, you made it so I can be with you.” 

Hermione pulls back, getting up on her elbow. She runs a finger across the contours of your face. “You don’t blame me, do you? For thrusting you across time.” 

You shake your head, grief a rising crescendo under your heart. “I blame death and dark magic, Hermione. I blame fate for the life it robbed from me.” You lean forward and kiss her forehead. “But I thank you for giving me a lifetime with my family. It’s not perfect and yes, there will be many days I wish it could have been normal, but our love has already defied rules and expectations already. A time travelling husband is nothing compared to what we’ve already been through.”

“You should have been in Hufflepuff with your loyalty, love,” she says with a brittle smile. “In all my years wanting you back, I forgot how much family means to you.” 

“You won’t forget that again, darling. I promise. Our family is beautiful thanks to you.” 

Hermione gasps softly before she leans forward and kisses you. Her mouth moves slowly against yours as she steals your very breath. Your fingers gather in her hair and she sighs contently against you. She pulls away with a flushed face. 

“I don’t know when—this version of me will forget what I’ve done, but…” she pauses with insecure hope in her voice. “Can I keep you for a little while longer?”

You rest your forehead against hers. “Absolutely.” 

You both curl around each other and peace washes over you. In your arms, you hold the woman you love. Her breathing is your favorite sound. You sink into the warmth of forever, want cozy in your bones as the room around you begins to fade away. 

One by one, the candles flicker out. Bricks disappear as the ceiling goes with it too. Tangible structures transform to impressions of color, a river of time trickling in the space around the witch’s circle. 

Hermione sits up first, in awe as the sky dawns overhead now. Glorious pinks and oranges bleed into midnight blue in a dance. Nightly stars and sun skip to and fro across the sky. Time shudders a breath and you are caught its rapture. 

As you sit up to join her, she grips your hand tight. An ocean roars that you can’t see, but you can smell the salt on the breeze. Outside the witch’s circle, seasons change with the days. Spring to summer to autumn to winter. A linear course that knows to move forward. A course that you no longer know. 

Anguish spirals in your soul. You know that this will be the end.

You lick your lips. “I don’t want to leave you.” 

Hermione gazes at the distance, the time’s wind catching her hair. She doesn’t say anything for a moment, soaking in the magic’s energy. 

“I know.” 

Tender yearning rests gently in your palm as you take your Hermione’s hand and kiss her knuckles. You kiss her palm and then the pulse under her wrist. She giggles as you nip her, watery joy melancholy in her voice. 

Beautiful brown eyes find yours and they are your world. In the quiet of the cosmos, your bodies shift together as you kiss her once more. Her unsaid goodbye trembles against your lips and grief swells in your heart again. 

Gentle hands undo the buttons of your shirt as you admire the ink stained under her nails. Some things never change. Together, you undress each other, leaving bruising tokens on your bodies. She kisses you above your heart, sucking hard enough to leave the most perfect mark. 

Nude as Time as your only witness, Hermione’s body is beautiful still. Lighting marks jag along her thighs and hips. Her stomach is no longer flat, but soft to the touch, love handles nestling into her sides. Her breasts which have always been a favorite, rest more comfortable with stretch marks too. 

You smile as you kiss her, guiding her to lay down. “You are so gorgeous.” 

Freckles pepper the deep tan lines of her chest as you rest your hand above her heart. It beats steady as your favorite song, the tempo quick and fun. You slot yourself between her legs and touch her at her core. 

Roaring ocean waves roll closer to the witch’s circle, the tides matching Hermione’s breath as you pleasure her. With her every gasp, the waves rise higher and crash before swelling again. Then finally, as her nails dig into your shoulder and she moans your names, she stiffens beneath you, mewling her praise as a wave crashes against the witch’s circle. 

Breathlessly, she kisses you on the mouth. “Draco...” 

The sky dances with the ocean around you and you will never forget this moment drenched in Time. You whisper your love across her lips as you sink slowly into her as if you were made for her. This is how life begins, in the stunning moments when lovers meet. 

You stroke a lock of hair behind her ear and rock into her. Hermione lifts her hips and grinds against you, and you both melt into each other. In a world where only the two of you exist, you become the ocean and the shore, the give and take when wave and earth become one. 

Ecstasy swims in your veins, pulling you more taunt as warmth swallows you both. Hermione clings to you, her mouth hot against your neck as she groans into your ear, clenching you tight. You swear and shake as you match the rise of the ocean waves as you lift her by hips. You ground deeply into her, your love-making the same sound of crashing tides.

“Look at me,” she says and yours eyes snap to hers. Molten brown warms like honey in the flickering starlight. “I was made to love you.”

Between the cosmos and with the tide, you both crash into each other, love another word for pleasure that vibrates under your skin. You crowd her with an embrace, caging her in a moment that you refuse to let escape. 

“I will always find you,” you say. “Wherever you are, that’s where I’ll be.” 

Hermione swallows thickly and she briefly nods as she kisses you with gentle lips. Her hands are butterfly soft against your face. Her fingers map the shape of your jaw, memorizing them a moment longer before she lets go. 

There are no tears in her eyes, but you can feel the heavy weight of her swollen heart as if it were your own. 

“It’s time,” she whispers. 

You clench your jaw to stop your chin from trembling. 

“I know.” 

You both stand together, magic crumbling under your feet as the witch’s circle starts to fade away. The magic in the air slips into sleep, the revolving sky settling for a starry night. Low tides recede out of view, taking the soft sea breeze away too. 

In one last act of devotion, you dress each other again, fingers stalling to linger on the other’s skin for a moment more. Finally, buttoned up enough, Hermione slides her fingers into yours and kisses the back of your hands. The witch’s circle is nothing more than what is under your feet. 

“I love you,” you say. “You are—” your voice hitches in your throat. “You are the woman I married and I—I will not forget you. Ever.” 

A stray tear falls from Hermione’s eye and she gives you a beautiful, brittle smile. “I will always be the woman you married, just—not so much in pain. Take care of me, love.” 

With broken resolve, you gather your fading wife into your arms and bury your face into her hair. “Always.” 

Time stretches both forever long and too short as you fall backwards through time again. This Hermione remains rooted in this moment as you’re hurled somewhere new. 

As you close your eyes, a different future flashes in mind, the what-if you never died, the what-if you never fell through time. You see years in an instant blink, and you grow old besides Hermione. You see Ara grow up. You live your life one day at a time exactly how you’re supposed to be. 

You slip through time, seconds fluid across your skin. Magic swirls around you and you breathe it in. It tastes like green apples, crisp and refreshing, as it settles in your bones.

You open your eyes and see one last moment of your stunning wife, Hermione. This woman who longed for you, this woman who fought for you. She is your beginning, your starting point to everything. The reason you’re still breathing. 

Hermione is your reason to continue living. 

**ix.**

You wake to an opening front door, and someone is sizzling bacon in a pan. A little girl with pale blonde hair snaps her attention and her face splits into a large grin. She throws her book down and runs to you.

“Daddy!” 

She jumps straight in your arms and you catch her with a breathless laugh. She clings to you and pecks your cheek with adorable kisses. Love swells in your heart so fast you blink back tears. 

Ara pulls back, her little fingers wiping away your tears. “Why are you crying?” 

You chuckle and squeeze her tight. “Because I love you, pumpkin. It feels like I haven’t seen you in so long.” 

She wrinkles her nose. “Well, I saw you a few days ago, but I love you too, Daddy.” 

You kiss the top of her head. “Just promise me one thing, Ara?” 

“What?” 

“Never grow up and stay like this forever, okay? Always call me ‘Daddy’ even when you’re old and married with a baby of your own.” 

Your daughter’s face twists, and she scowls. “Daddy! I’m never, ever gonna marry no one,” she says. “Except maybe you.” 

A hand slides across your back and Hermione kisses your cheek. “Sorry, my little love, your Daddy is already married to me.” 

Ara pouts, but agrees. She wiggles out of your hold and runs to her toybox, rummaging for something. Not being able to find it, she runs upstairs. 

Hermione leans into your side. “You look good today, dear. Very refreshed. Did you wake up here?”  
  
“Time travelled through the door, I think.” 

She blinks and you can hear how fast her mind starts working, jotting little notes for her to keep. 

She shrugs, her questions held on her tongue. “Well, breakfast is ready, if you’re hungry.” 

Your wife moves to the kitchen, you tug her back to your side. You spin her around until you’re chest to chest. Hermione giggles as the surprise, but quiets as you kiss her deeply, dipping her towards the ground. She is soft against your mouth, her smile in her every kiss as she holds onto her shoulders. 

You pull apart and steady her to stand on her own. Breathlessly, she wraps her arms around your neck and kisses you chin. “Well, I guess I missed you too.” 

“What can I say? I just want you to know that I love you. Every single one of my days.” 

She plays with the few strands on the back of her neck. “Ah, this must be time travel related. You only extremely assure me if you learned something new.” 

You take a deep breath, keep the heartache out of your voice. “I met her—or rather you—the you who started all the time travel and I—” you pause, steeling your emotions. “She suffered alone for so long, Hermione. You suffered, but now you’re not, but I’m the only who gets to remember that.”

“Suffering or no suffering, Draco, I am thankful for the life I have with you now.”

“What in the world did I do to deserve you?” 

Your wife laughs and pinches your side. “Nothing, love. We just happen to exist, relativity in the same part of the timeline at the same time, give or take actual continuity.”

“You know, I have been rather surprised you took this so well. Me time travelling and you not trying to fix it. Let alone question it.” 

“Well, you know I might be—” 

“Hermione Malfoy,” Ara shouts as she hops down the stairs. “And even I am not omni-omnip-omnipint!” 

“Omnipotent, little love. Omnipotent.” 

“Yeah, that! What Mummy said!” 

You bend down quick and snatch your daughter at her ribs. You hoist her in the air, and she shrieks with childish glee as swing her up and down. “Omnipotent! Do you even know what that means?” 

“Daddy! It means super powerful, like Uncle Harry!” 

You pretend to drop her, but catch her in the nick of time, her giggles precious joy. You scoff, faking offense. “Uncle Harry? Uncle Harry isn’t super powerful. Have you seen his hair?”

Ara runs her fingers through yours and grins. “It’s not as nice as yours, Dad.” 

You move her to your hip and squeeze her tight. “Of course. Malfoy hair is far more superior’s than a Potter’s. Look at yours,” you say, “you definitely have the most beautiful hair I’ve ever seen.” 

“Even more beautiful than Mummy’s?”

You laugh. “How about as equally as beautiful as Mummy’s? I love both of your hair.” 

Besides you, Hermione snorts unattractively and waves you off as you quirk a brow in her general direction. “Nice save, love,” she teases. Her attention than turns to your daughter. “Okay, Little Miss, time for breakfast.” 

Ara jumps out of arms with enthusiasm and grabs your hand, dragging you to the kitchen. “Come eat, Daddy. Grandma Granger always says you look too thin.”

Breakfast is a moment of dreams. It feels like only yesterday when Hermione told you that she was pregnant, and you wondered how mornings would be with your child. You blink and the dream is real, Ara chewing happily on a slice of toast as she kicks her feet in her seat. Hermione stares at you over the rim of teacup, her smile serene.

“What?” 

She sighs completely pleased. “You’re a young one, aren’t you, love? New to time traveling, right?” 

You choke on a piece of rather dry toast. Ara slides you her orange juice. “That obvious?”

“Mmmhmmm,” Ara hums. “You usually know where to find forks without banging all the drawers.” 

Hermione chuckles to herself and pokes Ara in the side. “Mind your manners, Ara. Your father is out-of-order.” 

“But he’s our out-of-order Daddy, right, Mum?”

You do not crumble at your child’s words, but you sew them to your heart. You know you’ll need them later. Your life is not perfect, but it is precious in the way that Ara beams at you with her mother’s smile. Little hands grab yours and she kisses it, like she’s breaking a muggle spell. 

“There, there, Daddy. No need to look sad. I kissed you better.” 

Any lingering doubt slowly bleeds from you, acceptance wearing your daughter’s face.

Home curls around your shoulders as you finish breakfast with your family. Ara and Hermione tell you stories about days at school and work, but no bitterness wakes in the missing moments you don’t see. Relief washes over you that this is enough, just being one with your family. Though, one thing, tickles a part of your brain as your wife discusses a new paper about making electricity more friendly with magic. 

“Hermione, darling, do I ever get a hobby?”

She blinks at you. “A hobby?” 

“Well, yes,” you start, feeling a little foolish and out of sorts. “You know, something to do when we’re not spending time together.” 

Understanding strikes Hermione and she looks at your daughter. “Ara, go get your father’s things. It’s on his nightstand.” 

Ara salutes you both like a determined little soldier and you have many questions you’re not sure you want to ask at the moment. Instead, you laugh and follow your wife where she takes you back to the living room. 

She pats for you to sit on a very comfortable couch. She grins up at you. “You picked it out.” 

As you sink into the cushions, you groan. “Obviously. This has my good taste.” 

Hermione playfully rolls her eyes and links her fingers through yours. “As for hobbies, don’t worry, you keep that mind of yours active.” She snickers as you let out a sigh of relief but continues. “However, while potions are not ideal for time travel, you become a master at spell work, especially charms. And surprisingly, dead languages.” 

You let out a sharp, embarrassing laugh, but your smirk pinches your cheeks.

“Yes, love,” Hermione says. “You never tire of that humor.” 

“It’s rather genius, I think. That’s all.”

In the next moment, Ara runs down the stairs, her arms holding a book and a bag slung over her shoulder. She drops them in your lap and your grunt at the force. Though she’s wearing a light-yellow dress, she wipes her forehead like she did a day’s of hard work.

“There, Daddy! Your things!” 

Ara climbs into Hermione’s lap and both wait patiently for you explore what’s rightfully yours. Gingerly, you open the bag and take out a photo album and a muggle digital camera. On closer inspection, the book is not really a book, but more of a—

“Diary?” 

Hermione laughs. “A journal. You write down your story.” 

Ara rummages through the bag and finds another device—a muggle cell phone. “You also like taking pictures, Daddy,” she says as she presses it into your hand. 

You absorb this information and nod, the photos in the book enticing, but you’re not sure if you’re ready to look at them right now. There’s a life in there you haven’t lived yet. You fiddle with the phone and the screen comes to life under your touch, a picture of Hermione smiling as your lock screen. 

“I was never great at taking pictures,” you say. “Did I get better at it?” 

Ara fidgets in her mother’s lap. “Duh, Daddy! You have the longest arms to take selfies, silly billy!”

Hermione takes the phone from you and opens the camera app for you. “It’s tradition, you know, for us to take a picture together,” she explains. She gestures to the photo album. “All those pictures are from times you’ve been here. We may be out of order, but we have a lot of memories together, Draco.” 

Her words release the last bit of fear that and courage dispels the unknown. With the answer as plain as a lifetime connected to this woman by your side, you wrap your arm around your girls as you hold up the camera. 

“Okay, my darlings, say ‘Hollyhead Harpies’!” 

To a stranger, you’re just a small family squishing together on a screen, but as you see their faces and feel your love, you that this is your legacy. This is who you are, and this is who you are meant to be. 

  
**x.**

You wake slowly, attempting to ignore the blaring of Hermione’s alarm clock on her nightstand. The bathroom door opens, and jasmine scented-steam wafts across your bedroom with warmth. Hermione sits on your side of the bed, the mattress dipping under her weight. Wet hair brushes across your bare chest as she reaches over to turn off the alarm clock. You grin and hug her. 

“Magic,” you mumble. “We literally have magic.” 

Hermione giggles in your hold. She extracts herself from you and cups your face. She kisses you with minty breath. “Yes, but I like to wake you up like this.” 

You close your eyes again and sleep wants to claim you once more. Hermione sighs, her thumb gentle on your cheek as her fingers massage the hair above your ear. Your breathing evens out when Hermione taps your face. 

“Still not feeling rested after sleeping?” 

You barely open your eyes. It takes great effort to make yourself sit up. “Yeah. I know I slept. I went to bed at half-past nine, but I’m still tired. Don’t know what’s been wrong with me.” 

Hermione frowns, her hand finding its way to rest over your heart. “We should schedule an appointment with a healer then. Something’s definitely wrong if you’re still this exhausted. It’s been weeks, love. You can’t keep relying on Pepper-Up potions forever.” 

“I know, I know…” you say. You sit up more, fighting off sleep with pure determination. “Has anyone ever told you you’re absolutely annoying when you’re right?” 

Your wife smirks and pokes you in the side. “Yes, once or twice, but all I’m hearing is that I’m right, which implies—” 

“I’m less right, that’s what that implies, Mrs. Malfoy.” 

Hermione stands and stretches; her silky bathrobe pulls taut against her skin. Mischief fills her eyes. “It’s Miss Granger, and you know it.” 

You snag her hand and kiss her knuckles. “One of these days I’m going to get you to take my last name. Even if it’s the last thing I do.” 

“You said that about me marrying you.” 

You laugh. “And look, you married me!”

With great reluctance, you shove your feet into slippers and get out of bed. Hermione hums to herself as she picks out an outfit for the day. The both of you are still overjoyed at the news you’re expecting a little one soon. There’s no baby bump yet, but if you squint, you swear she looks a little rounder. 

“If we have a boy, we should name him Scorpius. Middle name to be decided.” 

Hermione pauses at a purple blouse you adore. “Scorpius. Pre-dates the Greeks. Killed Orion,” she lists. She giggles and looks at you over her shoulder. “That is such a man’s name to choose. Like, ‘wow, I really hope my kid is a tough kid’ kind of name.” 

“Darling, I’m named after a dragon. Blame my mother.” 

“And if we have a daughter?” 

You roll your eyes. “That’s easy. Ara Scorpius.” 

At this, Hermione turns towards you, her hands resting low on her stomach. She considers the name and smiles at you, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “Now that’s a perfect name. Beautiful, but dangerous. Ara Scorpius,” she says. “I might not believe in divination, but I am certain we’re having a daughter.” 

You reach out to her and tug one of her curls. “So am I. Hence the middle name.”

Hermione laces her fingers around your neck. “So, today I’ll schedule your appointment with the healer since you’re rubbish at it.” 

“To be fair, you actually like scheduling appointments.” 

She laughs. “True. Sometimes I can be wifely. Tonight, though, let’s go out if you’re up for it? We can have dinner, maybe go see if any live bands are playing? It won’t be a symphony,” she teases, “but hopefully there’ll be dancing.” 

You kiss her nose. “Who are you? My Hermione never makes plans the day of.” 

She shrugs, her smile drooping. “I don’t know? I just—I feel like something big is going to happen today, but I don’t know what. I have all this extra energy for some reason. Maybe breaking routine will make me feel better?”

You nod and kiss the corner of her mouth. “If it makes you feel better, then why not? I could always use some fun. Just the two of us before our little one comes along. It sounds like a date then.”

Hermione beams at you, starlight soft in her smile. The both of you continue your morning routine, enjoying the quiet moments of marriage you have right now. You fix her a cuppa; she straightens your tie. She reminds you it’s the fourth of the month and you have to pay some bills tomorrow. 

She regards you once more, her last kiss lingering on your lips. She soaks you in before she heads off to work. “Bye, love. Half-past six tonight?”

You soak her in too. She chose the purple blouse you adore the most. Sometimes, you forget how breathtaking she can be when she doesn’t even notice. Happiness swells in your chest and you feel lightheaded. 

“Darling, I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” you promise. 

**Author's Note:**

> THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING. This story was complicated. It was in second person. It has a lot of poetry. But this story is me as a person and it has helped me grow so much. I'm really proud of what I've done.
> 
> Thank you so much for comments, kudos, and bookmarks. 
> 
> And a big thank you to literally everyone who helped with this story: @lostinthought, @icepower55, @Starryar, @_lder, @boldofyoutoassumeihavealife, @gigiree, @Kaylakifiya AND ANYONE WHO WOULD LISTEN. 
> 
> For fantastic art, you follow [@JOUEL474 ](https://twitter.com/jouel474?lang=en) on twitter and you can find me on tumblr @[megamegaturtle](https://megamegaturtle.tumblr.com/)
> 
> The sonnet Draco recites is called "Bright Star" which is thought to be written for Fanny Brawne as it's revised. Keats wanted to marry Brawne, but he never got the chance too.


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